Harry Potter and the Chalice of the Moon
by AntaresTheEighthPleiade
Summary: The cure for lycanthropy exists. The only problem is getting a hold of it, figuring out how to use it... okay, so there are several problems. But since when has Harry Potter let the problems win? Book 3 of the Saga of the Lightning Speaker.
1. Serpents and Spiders

First off, I am _so sorry_ for not starting this sooner. I really don't have any excuses. I WILL have the next update up in a week. If I do not, pelt me with flames until I burn.

If you haven't read _Behind and Between,_ you might be a bit confused.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley... you get the picture. Please don't sue me.

* * *

><p><em>There may be in the cup<br>A spider steeped, and one may drink, depart,  
>And yet partake no venom<br>- The Winter's Tale _2.1, William Shakespeare

He ran.

Spellfire exploded behind him, colliding with the walls. Destruction followed where they touched. He cursed silently as another hex almost grazed his shoulder. Ducking and dodging, he snarled softly.

If it were only him, he might not be fighting so ferociously. But it wasn't only him, there were so many others relying on him, though they didn't know it. The fate of his people depended on his success, on the information he had to offer them.

But if they caught him, if they imprisoned the intruder in their secret records, as surely they would, his people would never know what he had learned. They would continue in misery until the end of time.

Therefore, he couldn't be caught. He had to escape.

He had to hide!

The man doubled back, plowing into his pursuer. Aurors, even foreign ones, were trained to exchange spells, not physical combat. She wasn't expecting his unconventional attack.

Grimacing, the fugitive charged into another hallway, one the guards had already gone through. He'd spent enough time scouting out this place that he knew where to go from here. Left, right, left again, and he was out.

Worried, the man looked back at the place he'd escaped. He'd taken out the lights early on. Right after the startled clerk had found him with the records. Hopefully no one had seen his face.

Tyr Ulfhednar, Alpha of Great Britain's werewolf pack, smiled grimly. He hadn't found what he was looking for….

But he knew where to find it.

* * *

><p>Rubeus Hagrid was almost dancing with excitement.<p>

Last Halloween, he had fallen in love with the most beautiful, gentle, and amazing woman in the entire world. Admittedly, they had only met once, and most of that meeting had involved her dragging him through the Forbidden Forest in the middle of the night, but he just knew that they were meant to be. She was obviously not human, just like him, and she had saved Norberta's life. In fact, he was certain that she had also saved a group of human girls from the clutches of Lucius Malfoy. She was a heroine!

And he was going to see her again _today! _

At least, he hoped so. On Halloween, he'd asked her to come back and see how Norberta was doing. Hagrid had mistaken her for one of the legendary Fae, for what other race had those amazing golden eyes? Since the Fae could only come out three nights of the year, he'd asked her to return on Beltane. Now, though, he knew that she wasn't a Fae because she had saved Malfoy's victims on a normal, non-magical day. Hagrid still wasn't sure what she was, but he didn't care. He loved her anyways.

So why couldn't Hermione understand that?

The bushy-haired Ravenclaw glared. "Hagrid," she hissed for the _billionth _time, "you've only met this Saysa _once!_ You don't know anything about her except that she has a soft spot for your pet dragon. This is hardly the basis for a passionate romance."

Naturally, her protests went in one ear and out the other. "Yeh should meet her, Hermione," the besotted half-giant said solemnly. "Then yeh'd see what I mean."

The witch rolled her eyes. She _had _met Saysa, several times in fact; the two females talked at least six times a week. She knew the basilisk well enough to confidently say that Saysa was not interested_ at all_ in romantic entanglements. Besides, between the age difference, snake thing, and the fact that she had gotten Hagrid expelled, it would never work out.

"No, thank you Hagrid." It would be beyond awkward to intrude on their meeting- a meeting which Hagrid thought was a date.

That didn't mean she wouldn't spy, though. Harry cast a very powerful Disillusionment Charm.

"At the very least change into something more presentable," she sniffed, gesturing at the older mage's hideous orange-checked coat and unnaturally slick beard.

"I'm presentable," her friend growled. Hermione decided not to push it.

By the time Harry had enchanted her, their favorite giant's appearance had actually deteriorated. He'd somehow found a corsage of oversized daisies and pinned it awkwardly to his too-high collar. Another bouquet of mismatched flowers and a clumsy wooden flute were in his hands. Even worse, he was sweating buckets.

Poor man, Hermione thought. He's going to humiliate himself. She briefly considered Stunning him before deciding against it. Hagrid needed to learn that he and Saysa could never be together, and the sooner the better. She followed the nervous man into the Forbidden Forest.

Most Hogwarts students were afraid of the vast woods, but not Hermione. She and her friends were under the protection of the local centaur herd and the Queen of Serpents. Not even the darkest creatures would harm them.

Saysa was waiting for him in a tiny clearing, and Hermione silently cursed her choice of location. The early spring sun pierced the barren branches in a golden shaft of light, making her more beautiful than ever.

"H-h-hullo, Miss Saysa." Hagrid's voice cracked on the last syllable, and his face reddened like a cherry.

Saysa smiled at him, careful not to reveal her pointed teeth. "Hello, Rubeus. How have you faired these past months?"

"Jes' fine. Er- fine Norberta too. I mean, Norberta's fine too." The poor man was blushing to the roots of his hair.

The serpent-woman grew aware that she was making him uncomfortable. "That's wonderful," she murmured, and began walking through the forest.

"Wait!" shouted Hagrid. Saysa turned. "I- flowers!" He jerked them forward with such force that several petals fell off. Hermione hid her face, half-expecting the groundskeeper to drop dead then and there of mortification. Needless to say, he came very close, stuttering and stammering like a fool.

"Are you certain you're all right? Perhaps you should visit a healer."

Mumble. Hermione couldn't hear it, but she assumed that he assured her he was fine. Then, shyly, "I've got somethin' ter show yeh."

"Oh?" The two humanoids, followed by the Disillusioned Hermione, meandered deeper into the Forbidden Forest.

"Well, it's no' really a some_thin'._ It's some_one._"

The Ravenclaw was beginning to get nervous. What if Hagrid introduced her to the centaurs? Hopefully the herd would have common sense enough not to mention that they knew her already, but one never knew. All it would take was one little foal greeting her by title and even the oblivious half-giant would know something was up.

Even worse, Hagrid couldn't keep secrets. It was a _miracle _that no one but the prophesied five and Dumbledore knew he'd met Saysa. It was even more of a miracle that Hagrid had only told three people; Saysa herself had done the rest of the telling.

"His name's Aragog," the large man continued. Behind him, Hermione frantically thought through all the centaur names she'd heard. Aragog wasn't familiar; it wasn't even remotely similar to the other names. Centaur names were Gaelic or Greek. Aragog derived from neither language.

"Aragog's been my mate since I was twelve. 'e's always been there fer me, y'know? An' he's got a wife Mosag and lots o' kids an' grandkids. They're sweet li'le things. Yeh'll like them."

"I'm certain that I will."

They continued walking and chatting, Hagrid mumbling inanities and Saysa trying (and failing) to put him at ease. Once, during a long stretch of flat path, the wizard took out his crudely carved flute. Much to Hermione's horror, he immediately began playing "Greensleeves."

Fortunately, Saysa didn't seem to recognize the tune. Even if she had, she probably wouldn't have made the connection between a love song addressed to a woman in green and Hagrid's feelings for her. Living in isolation for almost a thousand years had severely dampened her social skills, especially when it came to romance. By the time she'd been born, the Founders had already been married, and she hadn't seen their children fall in love. The basilisk had no experience with courtship.

Simply put, she was incapable of correctly interpreting the besotted look on Hagrid's face.

They'd been walking perhaps an hour, Hermione jogging behind to match the adults' longer stride (Firenze's lessons really did pay off) when the Ravenclaw realized that she didn't know where they were. That was unusual; she'd been wandering the forest for months and had learned to navigate most of the centaur territories.

Even worse, this part of the woods oozed darkness. The barren trees seemed to claw at the skies, reaching out to kidnap the clouds. The shadows were longer than they had any right to be. Most telling of all, though, was the utter silence.

Hermione had grown up in Somerset. While it wasn't _enormous,_ per se, it hustled and bustled perpetually with the inevitable sounds of tourism and travel. Hogwarts was quieter, but she'd only experienced true silence in the Chamber of Secrets and the castle on Founder's Isle before Dudley and Sirius had arrived. Now only the Chamber and secret coasts of the isle remained.

The Forbidden Forest should have been bursting with birdsong, especially in the early spring. Twigs should be cracking and squirrels chattering and little invisible creatures darting around just out of sight. This place, though, was utterly, inexplicably, frighteningly silent.

She began to wonder if following them had been a good idea.

Saysa, too, hesitated. "Rubeus, are you certain that this area is safe?"

"Oh, o' course!" the huge man bubbled. "We're almos' to Aragog's home now."

A nasty thought occurred to Hermione. She'd accepted from the get-go that Aragog wasn't human; humans didn't inhabit the forest. If this was the abode of Aragog (and his wife Mosag, and their children, and their grandchildren), it stood to reason that Hagrid's mysterious friend was the reason for the forest's unnatural silence.

What kind of horrible beast had Hagrid befriended _this _time?

Well, she consoled herself, at least it couldn't possibly be another dragon. Of course, that might be a bad thing- no dragon would attack a basilisk, even a disguised one.

The Ravenclaw sighed. Since Hagrid was determined to kill them all, she had best find some way to stop him.

According to Harry, Firenze, and her favorite history books, a warrior should always take the high ground. Hermione silently cast the _muffliato _charm on her shoes then charged ahead of her friends, looking for a little rise or knoll. Upon cresting the miniature hill, she froze.

She had found Aragog.

Spiders swarmed before her, huge and black and hairy. Arm-length pincers shone in the morning light. Colossal muscular legs sprouted from oversized dark bodies, all covered in night-colored bristles. Eyes like sickly grapes clustered atop their heads.

Their home was equally nightmarish. The rise Hermione stood on was part of a bowl-shaped mound that surrounded the spiders in a rough circle. The trees within were long-dead, shrouded in cobwebs like tormented mummies. Spiders hung from the branches, busily pulling in their next meal. Hermione shuddered. That silk-wrapped bundle was almost the size of a child….

How _anyone,_ much less the loose-lipped Hagrid, had managed to raise an army of acromantulas just a few miles from hundreds of schoolchildren was a mystery she would have to ignore for the moment. All that really mattered was running back and rescuing them both before Aragog ate them alive.

Too late. Hagrid's bushy head crested the knoll, followed by Saysa's smoother locks. The spiders stopped as one. A murmur ran through them. Again acting as one, the monsters turned their horrendous eyes to the basilisk.

Something tickled the back of her mind, something about spiders and basilisks. Then she remembered.

"Oh, bugger."

"Hullo, everyone," Hagrid saluted, somehow oblivious to the palpably tense atmosphere. "This 'ere is Saysa, the one I've been tellin' yeh abou'."

Hermione would never learn what made the spiders overcome their natural aversion to Saysa to the extent of attacking her. Perhaps they simply panicked at her invasion of their ancestral home. Perhaps their hatred was stronger than their fear. Perhaps they thought that she was powerless in human form, that Hagrid had brought her as a gift. All she knew was that the lead spider, presumably Aragog, took one look at Saysa and screamed, "DESTROY THE BEAST!"

The acromantulas charged.

Hagrid, naïve fool that he was, couldn't believe it. His beloved friends would _never _hurt his soul mate. As such, he remained still when the spiders swarmed past him, right at Saysa.

The basilisk hissed, her face contorting in fury. For a moment, her entire being _rippled;_ only Hagrid's presence restrained her from her true serpentine form. Instead she loosed a terrifying Pictish war-cry and began slashing her attackers with a pair of long daggers, gifts from the dwarf king.

Saysa might be trapped in human flesh and unable to access her killing stare, but she was far from helpless. Her eyes might not kill, but they could still Petrify. Whirling around, thrusting at anything that got too close, she loosed her innate serpent magic. Dozens of charging spiders turned to stone, halting the advance for precious seconds before their comrades swarmed over their frozen forms.

Hagrid recovered enough to shout out, "Don' hurt them!"

The serpent-woman faced him with a "you have _got_ to be kidding me" stare. "Run!" she cried, grabbing the half-giant's arm and dragging him away.

"I don' unnerstan'- they're normally so gentle-"

"They must not like me," his companion deadpanned. The two took off running, pursued by the writhing mass of spiders.

Hermione charged after them, shifting into Pallas's slightly taller form for her longer legs, aiming deadly spells into their midst. Here a spider froze; its cousin exploded, showering everything nearby with gore. It was a good thing Harry had insisted on teaching them several of Voldemort's nastier hexes.

Unfortunately, her barrage alerted the spiders to their pursuit. A small group of stragglers broke off, ran towards her. Hermione fought back a scream. Harry's Disillusionment Charms were phenomenal, but would they hold?

_Wingardium leviosa, _the witch thought, concentrating with all her might.

A branch snapped to her right. The spiders, thinking their prey was escaping, ran over to the sound.

Hermione stared after them for long precious seconds then shook herself, Hagrid and Saysa were still being pursued, and neither of them had a wand. She wasn't a very fast runner, she probably couldn't catch up, but she had to try.

* * *

><p>One of the best things about Gilderoy Lockhart was how much he annoyed Snape. The man didn't do it on purpose; it was simply innate, like breathing or digestion. Hidden underneath his father's Invisibility Cloak, Mark stifled a laugh at their latest argument.<p>

This week's subject was hair care. One of Gilderoy's top ambitions was to open his own line of toiletry products, and he thought that Snape would be a perfect model for his advertisements. "I can see it now," the professor enthused, "on one side, you as you are today, with filthy matted tresses all covered in slime and a caption reading 'before.' Then on the 'after' side-"

"No."

"Think of the money! The fame! The adoring witches!"

"No."

They were walking on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Lockhart, at least, was enjoying the beautiful spring day. Mark wasn't sure what Snape was doing outside, probably hiding from the other teacher. It hadn't worked, of course; Gilderoy had an almost preternatural ability to hunt people down.

Snape spun on his heel, moving towards the shadowy trees. Gilderoy frowned. "Why go there? You have nothing to fear with me around, of course, but there's no sense in seeking out danger."

"Is that not what you do for a living?" sneered the other man.

Gilderoy huffed. "You know, Severus, I believe you're trying to avoid me."

"How_ever_ did you get that impression?" The Potions Master had paused, angrily facing his colleague. One stood in the sun, the other stalked the shadows. Mark plopped onto the ground. This was going to be good; too bad he didn't have any popcorn.

A few other students had the same idea. Lockhart's hair-care campaign and Snape's role in it were already campus legends. Besides, the snow was gone and the sun was shining. Why wouldn't they be outside?

It was because of the weather that so many people witnessed the Event.

A demon lunged out of the shadows, followed by other smaller beasts. In form they were giant spiders, black and terrible; in ferocity they were rabid lions. The horde fell upon Snape's stunned, frozen form, biting and tearing with their oversized pinchers.

Mark looked up at his hero. He'd never seen Lockhart in action before, but he knew it was a sight to behold.

Gilderoy let out a high-pitched, almost girlish shriek of terror. Kilting up his violet robes, the Defense professor tried to run, but he was mown down just like Snape. Cries for mercy and wails of despair echoed from under the two spider piles.

The Boy-Who-Lived was stunned. Where was the valor, the stunning heroics? How had the spiders overcome his mentor so easily?

There was a hideous wet chomping noise. Snape cried out.

Then an orange-checked blur charged towards the fallen professors, bellowing at the top of its lungs. The spiders looked up- and froze. For a moment Mark thought they were paralyzed with fear of Hagrid, but then he realized that they were just paralyzed. The huge man could drag them off Lockhart and Snape without difficulty. Horrified, he stared at the ragged bodies, hands tightening convulsively around the spider he was holding.

Then, in a flash of fire, Dumbledore was there. Fawkes perched on his shoulder. The phoenix took one look at the situation and fluttered over to Snape, who seemed to be in worse shape than Lockhart (if such a thing was possible). Beautiful head arched over his body, Fawkes began to sob.

The tears from his eyes were gorgeous, liquid crystals, diamond dust dissolved in water. Mark felt that they'd been wasted on Snape. Something Harry had said once about phoenix tears tickled the back of Mark's mind, but he was too stunned to remember.

The beautiful bird soon turned his attention to Lockhart, who was far more deserving. Or was he? He hadn't attacked the spider monsters like he was supposed to. He'd just stood there.

And so had Mark.

The realization made him go cold. Admittedly, he wouldn't suffer the loss of reputation; he'd been under his Invisibility Cloak at the time. But still… people had needed him, and he had failed.

That Mark was himself only twelve years old didn't cross his mind. He was the Boy-Who-Lived, after all.

For a second, Dumbledore's eyes flickered over to his young charge. Disappointment crossed the ancient face, and Mark fled in shame.

He was supposed to be the hero, and he'd just stood by.

* * *

><p>...I can't believe I just fed them to acromantulas.<p>

Oh well. I don't like them anyways. Too bad this didn't kill them.

-Antares


	2. A Rath Restored

_"Our doubts are traitors,  
>And make us lose the good we oft might win,<br>By fearing to attempt"._  
>-<em>Measure for Measure <em>1.4.

Albus Dumbledore stared sadly at the weeping man before him.

"An' then, Aragog shouted 'Destroy the beast!' an' they jes' charged! I swear, Perfesser Dumbledore sir, they've never done anything like tha' before." Hagrid blew his nose with a noise like an elephant. "So we ran. We though' we'd be safe a' Hogwarts. I didn' think they'd follow us! Are Perfessers Snape an' Lockhart okay?"

"Fawkes and I arrived in time," the headmaster sighed, "but they are both in critical condition."

Hagrid howled. "I'm sorry, Perfesser! I didn' mean- Aragog never- I should be sacked!"

"No," his employer replied. "You had no way of knowing that the tribe would react in such an uncharacteristic manner. In fact, it was your valor that saved Severus and Gilderoy. What spell did you use to freeze their attackers?"

The giant stared morosely at his feet. "Tha's jes' it, sir- I dunno. I think it was somethin' Saysa did."

Dumbledore nodded. He knew that already from Legilimency, but it still needed to be said. They had to start discussing the mysterious woman somewhere. "How curious," he commented. "It must be some kind of racial characteristic, but I've never heard of any non-reptilian creature with those eyes except a select few of the Fae. You are certain that she is not?"

They discussed Saysa's possible identity for a few minutes before Hagrid Flooed to visit Snape and Lockhart at St. Mungo's. He brought with him two platters of his famous rock cakes, which were more apt to do more harm than good.

The Headmaster shook his head. "Come along, Fawkes," he ordered.

The phoenix trilled mournfully. It waited a token two seconds before alighting on his arm. In a burst of red-orange flames, master and familiar were swept away.

They arrived in a locale far gloomier than Dumbledore's merrily humming office. The Forbidden Forest seemed to be holding its breath, trying to comprehend what had happened earlier that day. Frozen spiders dotted their silky webs, trailed after the frantic human footprints leading back to the school. Dumbledore knew that if he followed that trail, he would find even more of the beasts.

Then one of the acromantulas moved. "Why do you come?" it clicked in its percussive rasping voice.

"What happened, Mosag?" the human asked quietly. Fawkes bristled. His feathers sparked with more light than the moon could provide.

The spider hissed. "Hagrid has betrayed us," she articulated shortly. "He brought the beast into our lair. Our home is now corrupted; our children turned to stone beneath its gaze. I have only returned to wait for you, to demand revenge."

Dumbledore's eyebrow arched. "Are you attempting to imply that Saysa is a basil-"

"_Speak not the word!"_ cried Mosag. Even the frozen spiders, Petrified and unaware, seemed to shudder. "It has grown more powerful, more dangerous than ever. It must be destroyed." Her multiple eyes glittered. "You promised its death, Dumbledore."

"Indeed. The creature will die by summer's end. I have already directed my pawn to the legend of the Chamber of Secrets. He has Muggle-born friends; he will want to protect them, particularly after today's failure." It was almost a pity that Harry and Mark weren't close anymore. The elder twin's Parselmouth abilities would have been quite useful, but Dumbledore knew how to change the Chamber's password to something non-serpentine.

Back in his office, the headmaster furrowed his brow in thought. A human basilisk… how was that possible? Transfiguration perhaps?

He pondered it all through the night.

* * *

><p>The moon was nothing but a sliver in the sky, but Harry didn't care. Yes, he was supposed to wait for a full moon to perform this ritual, but Saysa had assured him that Beltane's magic would suffice. If he'd been smart, he would have done months ago on the winter solstice, when there had been a full moon, but he'd been rather busy then. Besides, Firenze hadn't started teaching them archery until the middle of January.<p>

The Parselmouth glanced at the west, where the sun was still visible. The ritual would work best in a twilit time, a time of transition between opposites.

It had been six months since the Winter Queen had told him how to restore the faerie raths, but he could still remember her every word. "On a day when both sun and the full moon appear in the skies, take a rowan bow and shoot three raven-fletched arrows to the setting sun." Of course, that was only the first portion of her very specific instructions. In rituals, the devil was in the details.

Harry hefted his centaur-made bow. The first arrow, fletched with a feather from his Animagus form, fit perfectly onto the string. Positioning himself carefully, the wizard fired.

The arrow soared across the gentle mound, barely discernable from the rest of the landscape. Not bothering to see where it landed- as long as it cleared the mound, which it would, the ritual would work- Harry nocked a second arrow, aimed, fired. He followed with a third. With three rapid thuds, the projectiles landed. Nodding to himself, the Parselmouth began walking counterclockwise.

Circumambulation, the act of walking around in a circle, was an important part of many Celtic rituals, especially those pertaining to the Otherworld. Harry hadn't really been surprised when the Winter Queen's instructions had included it. He was just glad he only had to navigate the darkening knoll once; three was a very Celtic, powerful number.

As the wizard walked, he poured some silvery liquid that _might _have been water from a tiny crystalline vial. The fluid flowed into his shallow footsteps, gilding the grass and early flowers in light from the sunset. Though the vial was very small, only a few cubic inches, it did not run out.

It was twilight now, the in-between time. Harry began whispering gentle, floating words in the language of Saysa's childhood. Still chanting eerily, the young wizard raised his hands before him like a parody of Frankenstein. One hand was clenched in a fist around an ornate silver-tipped dagger. It was an athame, a witch's knife. Harry plunged the blade into his right hand. Blood squirted, showered the ground, just as his voice reached the climax of the invocation.

And nothing happened. Harry's jaw sagged in horror. What had he done wrong?

Raven-fletched feathers and rowan bow? Check. Time? Check. Walking counterclockwise as opposed to clockwise? Check. Water? Check. Blood? Check. Plunge the bloody dagger into the ground?

…not check.

Hoping he wasn't too late, Harry plunged the bloody dagger into the ground.

This time, the results were immediate and dramatic. His blood exploded into crimson starbursts, which spread rapidly throughout the circle's circumference, following the path of the liquid. It shone red before cycling through blue, green, and yellow. With a final explosion of white brilliance, the light vanished, leaving behind a blinking wizard.

In the distance, something snapped. It sounded like the twang of his bow when he fired it, like a heavy door swinging open. It was somehow both and neither, deep and sharp.

And then there was a rider atop the hill.

He had appeared suddenly, silently, without the crack of an Apparating wizard. One moment the knoll was empty; the next an androgynous figure on a star-colored horse was silhouetted against the last vestigial sunlight. It was clothed all over in heavy dark robes. Only a tiny slit at its eyes was visible.

The hair on Harry's neck stood up. The horse and its rider had identical pumpkin-orange eyes. Somehow, miraculously, he kept his voice cool. "I presume that you are a messenger from the Summer Queen?"

The rider nodded, its veils rustling. Then it charged.

The silvery horse made no sound as it sprinted towards Harry, who, losing all composure, jumped backward. However, just before their collision the stallion veered aside, racing around the hill. Once, twice, thrice it circled before halting in front of the bemused onlooker.

Orange eyes met green, considered, judged. Harry stared back. He'd once locked eyes with the Winter Queen herself, and her sister's minion had nothing on that icy gaze. For a moment, approval glinted in those inhuman orbs. Then the rider held out something that glimmered in the moonlight. It was another vial, identical to the one whose contents the wizard had used to restore the first rath. Harry nodded, accepted the gift. Then the rider was gone.

Harry stared at the now-unoccupied spot. He crouched, inspected the ground. No footprints.

The wizard shuddered. _Why _was he dealing with the Fae again?

Oh, right- because he had to.

Stupid prophesies.

"**Hope." **

The Chamber of Secrets was exactly as he remembered it: a vast subterranean hall covered in serpentine carvings. Except for the purple blossoms of Angel's Net, a gift from Neville, and the gleaming golden stairway, the Chamber was painted in shades of gray.

"**Saysa? Are you here?" **

The dry rasp of scales answered him. **"I am here, Harry. Did you succeed?" **

"**I think so. I did everything the Winter Queen said, and when I was finished a knight appeared and gave me another vial." **

"**Wonderful." **The basilisk's voice was dull, listless. Harry instantly knew what was wrong.

"**If anyone's responsible for Snape and Lockhart, it's me,"** he assured her. **"After all, I'm the one who refused to remove Voldemort's curse on the Defense position. I even made things worse by hexing the Potions position back in March. So it's really my magic that made the spiders attack." **He hesitated. **"And they're not going to die. I toned down the curse, remember? Lockhart's an idiot, but so are a lot of other people and I can't just kill them all. Snape- well, Snape does deserve death for wanting my mother as his sex slave, but Hermione would kill me if I killed a teacher." **

Saysa chuckled gently. **"Did Hermione mention that she followed us and destroyed ten acromantulas?" **

Harry froze. **"No, she didn't. I thought that she was depressed because of the teachers, not-" **

"**Go talk to her,"** Saysa advised. **"She is very gentle and has never killed before. I would myself, but neither of my forms is exactly inconspicuous." **

"**Yes, ma'am,"** the Parselmouth agreed.

He stopped to visit Moaning Myrtle (he'd never admit it, but the ghost had grown on him, and he did feel guilty about remembering her death) and tell her about the injured professors. Myrtle was thrilled. She'd never met Lockhart and consequently couldn't care less about him, but she did know Snape. Promising to keep her updated, Harry escaped to Ravenclaw Tower.

"Knowledge has a twin. What is her name?"

Harry smiled ruefully. "Her twin has many names: madness, lunacy, insanity."

The portrait swung open.

For a moment none of the milling Ravenclaws noticed his presence, but then a fourth year caught sight of the green trim on Harry's robes and hissed. Soon the entire common room was glaring hostilely at the Slytherin intruder.

Harry ignored them, made a beeline for the stairs. He was intercepted by two bulky seventh years.

"What're you doing here?" the first asked suspiciously.

"I'm looking for Hermione Granger," Harry replied amiably. "Could you give me directions to the second year girls' dormitory?"

"I could."

Harry waited.

"Boys can't go into the girls' tower," interrupted a dreamy voice. Luna Lovegood, Hermione's odd but brilliant friend, smiled at him. "I'll go get her, though, if you'd like."

"I would like. Thanks, Luna."

The first year glided up another set of stairs. Harry sighed; apparently he'd been trying to climb up the boys' tower.

"You can wait outside," seventh year number two growled. Harry nodded, trotted over to the portrait hole.

Hermione's face was blotched with ugly crimson spots. Her eyes were poufy and downcast. Harry slung an arm around her shoulder, and they began to walk.

The Slytherin was beginning to wonder if this was a good idea. He had little skill at comforting people; that was more Hermione's forte. Still, he had to try.

"How are you feeling?"

"Rotten," was the blunt response. "I suppose you've heard."

"Yeah, she told me you followed and did your best to help them."

Hermione halted. Her bangs hung over her eyes, blocking them from Harry's view. Softly, very softly, she breathed, "I've never… never killed anything before. I know it was either us or them, I _know _it was the right thing to do, it's just- they were alive, and I changed that." Her shoulders trembled. "And I didn't care, not until it was all over and I started thinking again." A hoarse sob escaped her throat.

Harry held her, not knowing what else he could do. Meaningless phrases bubbled from his mouth- "There, there," "It will be all right."

Then he had an idea.

Keeping his voice low, the boy asked, "What about Horcruxes?"

Hermione blinked, her sobs pausing. "Wh-what about them?"

"You don't mind when we kill them."

"That's different. They- they're _foul,_ they're the only thing keeping a monster alive, if we don't he's going to ki-" Her eyes went wide. "Oh."

Harry sighed. "I don't pretend to know a lot about guilt. After all…." He gestured at his scar, itself a Horcrux, with a scowl. "But I don't feel sad when we destroy the Horcruxes. It's not a pleasant thing to do, sure, but it needs to be done. If I have a choice between killing an enemy and watching an enemy kill you or Mark or Sisith, you know what I'd do. You did the same thing."

A rueful smile flickered across Hermione's face. "When did you become so wise?"

"Blame the Sorting Hat." Time for a change of subject before she started bawling again. "D'you want to hear about my evening?"

The Ravenclaw perked up immediately. "Oh, that's right! You were-" She remembered that they were technically in a public place and dropped her voice. "You were restoring a rath. Did it work?"

"Yeah." Harry described the ritual, how he'd almost forgotten the final step, how the faerie rider had come to inspect his work. By the time he was finished, Hermione's face had lost all its grief.

"That's incredible! When are you going to do it again?"

"Later this month, I think. There's a full moon on the fifteenth."

"If the rider comes again, ask him for more than one vial. That way the others and I can help."

He groaned softly. "That's right. I'm a bloody idiot."

She grinned, pressed a finger across his lips. "Language, Harry."

The Slytherin grinned, unrepentant.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "It's almost curfew," she warned him. "We'd best be getting back to our Houses. Good night, Harry."

"G'night, Hermione. Sleep tight, and try to avoid nightmares."

Her answering smile was brilliant. "Don't worry. I will."

* * *

><p><em>The moon was full, its beams shafting through the atmosphere, sparkling in the dark of night. Beneath it stood a naked youth, shivering with cold or terror, in a perfectly circular grove. <em>

_The onlooker's sight was unnaturally clear. He saw strong features, a strong face. The nose was long, the eyes dark and slightly uneven. His skin was tan also, and his hair seemed another part of the night itself. He was lithely muscled, particularly in the arms, and his coarse hands bore several thick callouses. Beneath his feet a stream gushed forth from a rock like a giant's bone, black as soot in the night. Hidden within the trees, shadows shifted, roiled, boiled. _

"_Why do you come?" The voice didn't speak English, it didn't even _speak, _but the onlooker understood it anyways. _

"_Because they took my family," the youth gasped. _

"_Revenge?" The silent voice was contemptuous. No, not contemptuous- it was contempt. The onlooker could feel the emotion, the cold dismissal. _

"_No!" cried the youth, looking wildly about. "By Jarilo, I do not seek revenge- at least, not revenge alone!" Sweat streaked his face. "But neither do I wish to stand aside as they advance. Please, Master, let me join you!" _

_Silence. The bubbling shadows stilled. Now the onlooker could see faint pinpricks of color, the eyes of wild beasts. _

"_Leave." There were many not-voices in this one powerful not-voice, male and female, young and old. All were as distant and dismissive as the moon itself. "You have no place with us." _

_The youth hesitated, heartbroken. His shoulders squared. "No," he whispered. "Forgive me, masters and mistresses of the night, but I will not stand aside again at their raids. I will come here every night, in rain or snow or sleet, and I will stay here until death takes me or you agree to initiate me." His voice became stronger. "This I swear." _

_Time passed in a blur. The sun rose and set in clear or cloudy skies. The moon waned. Each night the youth, holding fast to his promise, sat down at the rock and waited. Snow fell, dusting the ground with white, and he brought a fur to sleep on. _

_On the night of the new moon, another man was waiting for him. He was older, scarred and muscled from a lifetime of war. He offered the youth a rocky loaf of bread. "Eat." _

_The youth took it without a word. _

_They sat there in tense silence until the older man commented, "You're stubborn, aren't you. Why are you so intent on joining us?" _

_The other snorted. "Why would I not be? You alone can fight." _

"_We do not fight for revenge." _

"_I know that!" The youth was frustrated. "Why do you assume I want vengeance? Yes, I do, but I considered joining you even before my family was taken. I've always wanted to fight." _

"_How fare they?" The elder's face was neutral. _

_His companion flinched away. "As well as can be expected," he said quietly. "None of the Taken-"The onlooker was beginning to detect a capitalization- "have much life. It's what makes them so horrible." _

"_And you claim you do not want revenge." _

_A sigh. "As do you and yours." _

_The elder chuckled. "When did any of my kin say such a thing?" _

_The youth scowled. "Is that not why you refuse me admittance? Because you fear that I'll let my hate, my rage against them destroy your- _our_- calling? No one can fight a war without passion. He who tries will be slaughtered in the first day. But in the same way, a warrior must never be ruled by hate or rage, because in doing so he will endanger his entire army and the enemy will be better served than if he'd never taken up a sword at all." _

"_Wise words," the second man mused. Then he laughed, a thrilled celebration. "Congratulations, cub. You've been accepted." _

"_What? But- but- you were all so against me- you said-"The youth's composure was gone. He realized it with a blush. "That is to say, I was under the impression that you personally were against my initiation." _

"_And yet you still came here every night for half a moon." _

"_In defiance, not in hope." _

"_Sometimes, dear cub, defiance is all we have. It creates hope, for isn't that all hope is? Hope is just another form of defiance. You're a wise young man. Perhaps," his eyes twinkled in a Dumbledore-esque fashion, "you will succeed me one day." _

_The youth's remaining dignity fled as his mouth worked helplessly. The elder roared with laughter. "You know when to come. Until then, fare thee well!" He bounded off into the night, form melting into the shadows, reforming as something different, something wild and dangerous. The onlooker caught a glimpse of flashing teeth, dark fur, golden eyes- _

Then Blaise Zabini, Smoking Mirror and Seer extraordinaire, woke up.

* * *

><p>Yes, the dream does have a point, just like the storm last book. All shall be revealed in time. I promise.<p>

I originally wasn't going to involve the whole kill-Saysa subplot, but Dumbles has to react to her presence somehow. It's just not in-character for this version to sit around idly when two of his teachers have been mutilated. The canon version probably would, but... this is not the canon version.

The moral of the story: don't stash huge deadly creatures where they can eat you. It's just a really bad idea.

-Antares


	3. News from across the Sea

_O, that way madness lies; let me shun that;  
>No more of that. -King Lear <em>3.4.21-22

One of the great mysteries of the Wizarding world was how irrelevant its news stories were. For example, nothing about a colony of angry, man-eating spiders infesting a forest _less than a mile _from the _only school in Wizarding Britain_ appeared in the Daily Prophet. In the Muggle world, an extermination team would have entered the woods at dawn's first light. In the land of wizards, though, the acromantula attack was completely ignored.

"This is pathetic," Harry snarled, flipping through his newspaper in disgust. "Two Hogwarts professors horribly mutilated, including the _great_ Gilderoy Lockhart, mentor to the Boy-Who-Bloody-Lived, and what's the headline? _Kidnapper Still Missing._ Of course Malfoy's still missing! If he wasn't, _that _would be the headline!"

"It is the five-month anniversary," Daphne pointed out, daintily buttering a piece of toast. "And the Ministry hasn't seen hide nor hair of him since we were rescued." She shot him a warning look. It was time to change the subject.

Harry, Blaise, and Daphne knew exactly why Lucius Malfoy was still missing. After all, they were responsible for his disappearance. The possessed Death Eater was currently bound, gagged, and Petrified in the dungeons of Founder's Isle. They were experimenting on him in the hopes that they could learn how to exorcise Harry's Horcrux without immolating him in Fiend Fyre. They would return him to the Ministry only after Voldemort's remaining Horcruxes were destroyed.

Maybe.

"Anything interesting?" Blaise wondered.

"… that idiot Umbridge woman is trying to pass more anti-werewolf laws… a couple weddings…. Who cares if some Hollyhead Harpy is getting married?"

"Quidditch fans, maybe?"

"Shut up, Blaise.."

"We ought to have his tongue cut out," Daphne noted.

Harry laughed for a moment before turning his attention back to the paper. He beamed. "_Ha._ Look at this- there's been a Ministry break-in in Riga."

Wizards were extremely detached from events in the Muggle world. That was why, when Livonian territories had been split between Estonia and Latvia following World War I, its wizards had totally ignored the mundane government and retained their independence. As such, Riga was the capital of two wizarding nations: Latvia and dead Livonia. Conflict in the double capital was common (particularly in the start of the school year, when the nations fought over who would teach the new Muggleborns), and this break-in was presented as an attempt by one side- the Latvian Ministry- to one-up the other- the Livonians.

"We care about this why?"

Harry lowered his voice. "Remember Moony's friend?"

The other two Slytherins smirked. They'd never met Tyr Ulfhednar, but they knew all about him- and about his mission.

"The one visiting Livonia?" queried Daphne sweetly. "I hope he comes home soon. After all, if the Livonian Ministry can't defend itself, it certainly can't protect any traveling Brits."

"I think he will," Harry answered. "I certainly hope so. After all, it's almost summer."

Blaise grimaced. He'd once promised three potential allies that lycanthropy would be cured by summer's end. Since then, the five had been frantically pouring over books, going through distribution plans (actually having the cure wouldn't matter unless they could get it out), and harassing dragons for their ancestral memories, but without Tyr actually finding the Chalice of the Moon, all this would be useless. "I thought he'd be back by now," the Seer complained.

"We know, we know."

Due to the acromantula attack, classes had been cancelled for the day. Hermione, of course, was panicking. After all, they had less than two months until exams. Normal people- namely everyone else in the entire castle- viewed it as a welcome break from exhausting labor.

After an hour of exercise with Firenze (jogging, archery practice, followed by some basic sparring techniques) and another hour of tutoring in Gobblededook and Mermish, the exhausted wizards went their own ways: Neville to the greenhouses, Hermione to the library, Daphne and Blaise to the Common Room, and Harry to visit his brother Mark.

The Boy-Who-Lived slouched across the Gryffindor table, an expression of dull misery covering his face. Harry flinched; he knew his twin blamed himself for what had happened. "You okay?"

Ron Weasley, who had been sitting beside Mark, shot the Slytherin a filthy look. Harry ignored him.

"I'm fine," growled Mark.

Harry flinched. Two years ago, he would have pressed the issue. Now, though, their relationship was strained, nearly broken. There had actually been a period not too long ago when the brothers hadn't spoken to each other.

"I s'pose you're going to talk about how Occlu-whatsit will help?" Ron's glare intensified.

The Slytherin grimaced; that had been another mistake. He'd volunteered to teach Mark and his friends Occlumency ("so I can get to know them and teach something useful at the same time"), but the four Gryffindors had flat-out refused.

Two years ago, Mark would have stood up for his brother, no matter how miserable he was. That day, though, he just sat there.

Harry sighed. "I'll see you tonight at the study session." He walked away, feeling helpless and very much alone.

* * *

><p>The Lightning Speaker and his allies Portkeyed to Founder's Isle late that afternoon. The attack in Livonia hadn't occurred very long ago, but there was a remote possibility that Tyr had already arrived. Besides, they hadn't visited the island's two guests for over a week.<p>

Sirius was sunning himself in canine form near the Portkey point. His ears pricked up. The dog frisked around his friends' feet, ignoring their laughing rebukes.

"How is the village coming?" Harry asked.

In February, Padfoot had overheard Hermione and Neville (in their Fae forms, of course) lamenting the lack of a greenhouse. The stir-crazy Animagus had instantly volunteered to build one. Much to his own surprise, he realized that he enjoyed architecture and decided to construct an entire village. After all, he'd pointed out to the skeptical quintet, they needed more room if they were going to host anyone else. The castle was already full.

Magic meant that Sirius could get an entire house up in just under a week, so nine cottages clustered around the castle and greenhouse (which was already filled to bursting with cuttings from the Longbottom greenhouse. Sirius was actually considering making another). None of the dwellings was very impressive-looking: simple thatched domiciles with stone walls and a few windows. Their builder, still new to architecture, had experimented with them, so each looked different from its fellows. He was currently working on a tenth.

The Animagus shrugged. "It's coming along. I don't really like the latest design- too many rooms. It feels too crowded, so I'm probably just going to stick with the seventh house's blueprints." He could have continued for hours- not much else happened on Founder's Isle besides dragon-watching, Dudley-watching, and building- but Daphne cut him off.

"We think that Tyr is coming back soon."

"You mean Moony's werewolf friend? The alpha you sent abroad?"

"Technically that was Pollux, but yes."

Sirius beamed. "So he's found a cure for lycanthropy?" He laughed. "Wait until Moony hears!"

"We don't know if he's actually found a cure," Hermione cautioned. "No one has heard from him for months. It might just be that he's been kicked out of Livonia, or that the break-in really was due to a Latvian spy." She paused to open the castle door. "I personally don't think that's the case, but it's always better to be safe than sorry."

Sirius nodded. "He can live in one of the guest houses. I just hope he doesn't try to turn us in."

"He won't. After all, they never recanted his arrest warrant." Harry scowled. "They should have erased it in January, when we proved that Lucius was the kidnapper." Technically it had been a Horcrux possessing Lucius, but Sirius didn't know that.

"It's the Ministry." Padfoot shrugged philosophically. "When have they ever cared about werewolves? Besides, you've already got a plan for pointing that out." His grin became demonic.

The five younger wizards laughed. "Speaking of which, we've got another story," Blaise informed him. "It's about your dear old friend, Severus Snape."

"Is he dead?"

"Not yet." The Seer proceeded to tell him about yesterday's acromantula attack.

Sirius howled. "That's definitely going in the VV!"

"Good."

"What's going on?" Dudley Dursley meandered down the stairs, blinking curiously.

They told him. He blanched. "A werewolf's coming to live here?"

"Moony's a werewolf. You like Moony," his guardian pointed out.

"But I've never met this Tyr person!"

"You hadn't met Moony a few months ago. And it's not like Tyr will be staying in the castle. He'll be in one of the houses."

"But what if he eats us on the full moon!"

That pulled Sirius up short. Hermione intervened. "The castle is designed to be impregnable. He won't be able to get past the ground floor."

Dudley did not seem convinced, but he didn't say anything else. They chatted idly for a few more minutes before Harry excused himself.

He thought back to last January, how they'd rescued Daphne and the other kidnapped girls from Malfoy's clutches. He remembered how he'd only turned aside the possessed wizard's wand instead of snapping it. He remembered how he'd gloated._ You want to know what's great about Slytherins, Tommy-boy? We're_ liars. _And we're good at it too_.

Harry didn't gloat.

Voldemort did.

Thanks to the Horcrux, he already had the elder Parselmouth's memories. How long would it be before he had his personality as well?

* * *

><p>Hermione scowled at the unconscious form of Lucius Malfoy as though he were responsible for all the wrongs of the world, which in her opinion: he was.<p>

It was irrational and she knew it, but she blamed Lucius Malfoy and the diary Horcrux for Harry's… condition.

But if they were responsible for his suffering, they could also provide a way out. Sighing, she went through the diagnostic spells again: limbs, cardio, respiratory, magical core, serpent sight….

The last was her invention. Magical serpents like Saysa and Norberta and even, to a lesser extent, Sisith, could see auras. Hermione, realizing how immensely useful that could be, had spent two months working on a way to produce the same effect in humans. Her spell corroborated what Saysa told them about Malfoy's not-colors, so everyone assumed it was working. The only problem was that it didn't last long.

"I don't suppose you're ever going to let us know why he's here?"

Hermione jumped. She hadn't heard Sirius until he spoke. She turned around, forgetting all about the serpent sight.

The Animagus's not-colors blazed.

Indigo danced with cloudy gray. Dark thread ran across his arms, hands, face, forming the vague outline of a dog. Other colors, mostly browns and reds, swirled around his heart.

Hermione shook herself, muttered the counterspell. Sirius returned to normal.

"We've told you already. Pollux is sick, and Malfoy has the same disease." At least they were similar enough. Harry wasn't possessed- yet. "We want to make sure the cure doesn't kill him." Because there was no way she (or the others) would let Harry kill himself just so Voldemort could die. They'd already decided that if they couldn't remove the Horcrux, Saysa would Petrify the Dark Lord and kill him after Harry's natural death at a ripe old age.

The Animagus just looked grumpy. "Maybe if you told me what it was, I could find something."

"No, it's very obscure." Harry claimed that there were fewer than one hundred books in the entire English language that even mentioned Horcruxes, much less explained how to destroy one without harming the vessel. Besides, Voldemort had memorized the ten most relevant, and they were of no use whatsoever.

"Is it related to the Dark Arts?"

Hermione jumped. "What- whatever makes you think that?"

"Malfoy's a Death Eater," came the smug response. "And…" he tapped his nose. "I'm a dog. There's something wrong in both their scents." He shuddered. "I once saw and smelled a man who'd been Kissed. They smell like that, only… opposite." A shrug. "I don't know what that means, only that it's true."

He could _smell_ the Horcruxes? He could _smell _them!

She forced her anxiety into retreat. "It's not my secret to tell," she told him, keeping her face perfectly neutral. "That's for Pollux to decide."

"I know," sighed Sirius, chagrined. "Can you blame a man for wanting to repay you?"

"Pollux knows more about his condition than any man in Britain," Hermione assured him. "Not even Voldemort knows more about this particular aspect of the Dark Arts."

Padfoot nodded. "Still, you're welcome to the Black library any time. I don't know how much it will help, but it's got some pretty rare books on the Dark Arts. Nasty things, too: Incanting, torture spells, making Inferi, making Horcruxes, Summoning-"

Hermione's brain shut down. Horcruxes? She knew that Sirius knew about the soul vessels- she'd told him herself- but not that he had his own information. "_What?"_

Sirius pulled up short. "Er-Pallas, are you all right?"

"Perfectly fine," she lied. "Excuse me a moment."

Hermione thought back to a day when she was only eleven years old, a day when a witch had walked through the door and whisked her into a magical new world. Minerva McGonagall had proved to the astonished Grangers that yes, wizards were real, and yes, your daughter is one of us.

She remembered another magical day, the day they'd realized that Daphne Greengrass, her closest female friend, was indeed the Daughter of Frost and therefore entitled to share all their secrets. She thought of how they had saved her, deliberately pushing aside the picture of her friend's unconscious form. No one knew why Daphne had fainted that day; Healers at St. Mungo's attributed it to attempted Apparition, but something about that theory felt wrong. She and Daphne had their own theory, and it was far more likely and useful than failed teleportation.

"_Expecto Patronem." _

The moonlight-colored raven burst from her wand, circled around the room before landing on her shoulder. "Tell Pollux to come to the dungeons," she ordered. The Patronus leapt.

Her friends had teased her about the raven, joking it meant she and Harry were in _lo-o-ove_ and could I be godfather? (Yes, Blaise, you may.) They all knew it was because Harry was her first real friend, even before Blaise and Neville.

They waited in tense silence until Pollux arrived, Apparating in with a sharp crack. His expression of pained hope nearly brought tears to Hermione's eyes.

"Sirius has volunteered his family library," she explained. "It might contain something we don't know about your condition."

The hopeful expression dimmed. "Thank you, Sirius," he sighed.

The Animagus frowned, thinking hard. He knew that he'd said _something_ to make Hermione react that way, but what was it? He'd mentioned Incanting, torture spells, making Inferi, making Horcruxes, Summoning, blood sacrifices, and Binding before she interrupted. That meant that Pollux's condition had something to do with one of those Dark spells, but which one?

"Let's go there now," he suggested. Maybe he could figure something out by which books he chose.

Pollux shrugged, doubting there was anything in the library Voldemort hadn't already read. Pallas smiled. "Good idea."

The Black library looked like something out of Gothic manga: tall, dim, gloomy, and covered in cobwebs. Hermione shuddered slightly, thinking of Aragog and his kin.

They spent the next hour or so exploring. Occasionally Sirius would take down a book, holler the title, and sigh in disappointment when Pollux politely turned it down.

"Pollux! Get over here!"

Pallas's shriek echoed through the library, calling both men. They found her cradling an immense, thick tome.

Harry's eyes went wide. "Is that _On the Destruction of Death?_"

Hermione beamed, nodded.

Her friend laughed out loud, not a normal reaction to finding such an evil book. He'd often commented that the only book he could think of that might help was _On the Destruction of Death,_ but that all known copies had been destroyed in the early 1920s.

Sirius gawked at them, mouth ajar. _"That's_ what you need?" he demanded incredulously. "Do you have any idea how dark that is?"

Harry's mouth was a thin line. "Unfortunately, yes," he growled. "My condition is extremely unpleasant, Sirius. It was born of Voldemort's own magic, a curse cast when I was only an infant." He rubbed his forehead. "The only way I can find a cure is by researching things I'd rather not think about, things that are covered in this book." He touched it gently, scowling. "Believe me, if I had a choice, I'd burn this foul thing right now."

"It must be awful," Padfoot breathed.

"Trust me, it is. But now, with this, I can hopefully find a cure that doesn't involve suicide."

"Which isn't an option at all, remember, Pollux?" growled Hermione.

"I know that," he groused. "Honestly, Pallas, don't you trust me?"

Sirius was starting to freak out. What could possibly be so awful that only death could stop it? But he didn't ask- he knew they'd never tell him. If he wanted to find out, he'd have to do some serious investigating.

So would he actually have to read the book? He looked at _On the Destruction of Death_ again: the yellowed pages, the binding of human flesh (which Pollux was quietly transfiguring to something more palatable), with its reddish sinister font. Just looking at it made him feel nauseous.

No, he wouldn't read the book. He wasn't _that_ curious.

Yet.

* * *

><p>At Hogwarts, the days passed quietly. Students studied for their upcoming exams, especially the frantic fifth and seventh years. Harry entertained his friends with stories of Tom Riddle's first exams, when he had panicked and forgotten to eat for two days straight, nearly fainting on the Transfiguration practical.<p>

Hermione got the hint. "All right, Harry. I'll remember to eat and drink. I promise."

"Did I say anything?"

Gossip flourished regarding the new Defense and Potions professors. One person swore that Barty Crouch, arch-nemesis of all Death Eaters, would fill the first post. Others bet on Mad-eye Moody, an equally famous ex-Auror, Dumbledore himself, or, somewhat incongruously, Molly Weasley. Blaise suspected that that particular rumor had been started by her twin sons.

Speculation was equally rampant concerning Snape's replacement. Dumbledore had publically announced that due to "complications," the greasy-haired git wouldn't be returning in September. After the cheering had died down (from all four Houses, Harry was proud to see), he had added that applicants for the position would be interviewed over the summer. Popular theories included Horace Slughorn, a Healer from St. Mungo's, and a Bulgarian with a harelip.

There was only one thing wrong with the idyllic days: Tyr hadn't arrived yet.

The five companions constantly discussed him. Had he found another lead? Had he been captured? Was he dead? They made daily trips to Founder's Isle, but the werewolf never appeared.

Not until the day of the full moon.

* * *

><p>I need to write more Dudley and Sirius stuff. Their interactions are so amusing (to me, at least, and I might just be talking about the ones that have taken place in my head).<p>

Sirius is snooping because he's a man of action. He doesn't like sitting around, and he wants to repay Pollux for busting him out of Azkaban.

I think that's it. -Antares


	4. Prophesied Returns

_I am a man  
>More sinn'd against than sinning. –King Lear <em>3.2.59-60

Neville was working in the greenhouse on Founder's Isle (it was both relaxing and an effective method of studying Herbology) when Sirius's dog Patronus informed him that Tyr Ulfhednar had arrived. He dropped his tuber in horror. Tonight was the full moon, and he had no idea if their island could handle a ravening werewolf. If Tyr hadn't found and used the cure, he'd soon find out the hard way.

At least there were a few hours until dusk, though not as many as he would have liked. If worse came to worse, though, he supposed they could store Sirius and Dudley in the Chamber. He darted to the castle proper, already wondering how to persuade them to stay in the dank, gloomy room.

The werewolf, a tough-looking man of average height with strong shoulders and iron gray hair, stood in Sirius's room with the Muggle and the Grim. His eyes flicked up, met Neville's. He rose. "Who're you?"

"Alexander Chamberlain, at your service." The pseudonym was no longer as awkward as it once had been, but it was still odd not to introduce himself as Neville Longbottom. "A friend of Pollux." He extended a hand.

Tyr considered, cocking his head slightly. Neville blinked but didn't look away or take down his hand. The wolf smiled approvingly, thrust out his own hand. "Tyr Ulfhednar, not exactly a friend of Pollux, but certainly an acquaintance." They shook.

"Where is Pollux?" wondered Dudley. The Muggle was sweating. Neville wondered if he, too, realized what day it was.

The Parselmouth was probably in the Slytherin common room with Blaise and Daphne, but he couldn't exactly say that. "I'll contact him. Sirius, while I'm gone, you can ward one of the cottages." He smiled sheepishly, turned to their guest. "That is, unless you've already used the cure."

Tyr's melancholy sigh was answer enough. Then his face hardened. "Before you do that, care to explain why this island is inhabited by an escaped murderer and his supposed hostage?"

Neville's jaw sagged. Tyr smirked. "We have newspapers in Livonia, you know, and no one has ever escaped Azkaban or its sister prisons. I wouldn't be surprised if they've heard of Sirius Black and his Muggle prisoner in Antarctica."

"He's innocent," the younger wizard explained.

"I see. That doesn't answer my question."

Neville's mouth felt like it was filled with cotton. "You're right, it doesn't." Why was _he_ the one to answer these questions? Anyone would be better, even the sarcastic Blaise. Even Sisith could explain things more clearly, and he was a snake!

He would give anything to let Sirius or even Dudley tell Tyr why they were here, but the werewolf's cold gray eyes bored into his, testing him.

Miraculously, his voice was steady as he explained, "Pollux broke them out. He knew Sirius was innocent, and did not believe that _any _child, not even one who had abused the Boy-Who-Lived," Dudley flinched "deserved to be sucked dry by dementors."

Tyr's eyebrow quirked, "Does Pollux often make a habit of breaking accused Dark wizards and creatures out of confinement?"

Neville managed a tiny smile. "I think he does."

"And the rest of you?"

He shrugged. "We help."

And they did. Their roles in the prophecy were important: Neville to "reforge the broken chains," Daphne to "bring back the forgotten arts," Blaise to "speak and be heard," and Hermione to "discover the secret of the Spider and the Bee," but all their tasks only served to support Harry's. The four companions literally existed to help the Lightning Speaker defeat the Viper and Spider, break the ancient lies, and (most importantly, here and now) free the werewolves from the full moon. "We help," he repeated, very quietly.

The wizard, the Muggle, and the werewolf stared at him, not understanding his epiphany. He ducked his head, unable to quench a smile. "I'll go get them, Master Ulfhednar. Sirius, could you show him to one of the cottages and ward it for tonight?"

"Sure."

He Portkeyed back to the Chamber and ran up the stairs. A year ago, he would have been exhausted by the jog; now he was only a bit winded. He paused at the exit to view what Harry and Blaise had dubbed the "Myrtle Cam," a piece of mirror charmed to detect ghosts. The mirror was blank, indicating that the dead girl was away. A quick _hominum revelio _revealed that no humans were in the bathroom, so Neville darted through the bathroom and into the hall.

He fetched Hermione first, mostly because she was the easiest to find. This close to exams, she spent almost as much time in the library as Madame Pince did. Despite that, though, she practically ran out of the library when Neville told her Tyr was back.

"Too bad we don't have that Marauder's Map Sirius and Remus were talking about," Neville noted.

"I know," Hermione sighed. "I wonder what happened to it?"

"It's probably still in Filch's cupboard. Maybe Harry could stage a retrieval."

He'd meant it as a joke, but Hermione thoughtfully chewed her lip. "I don't like the thought of taking it," she sighed, "but if something happens at Hogwarts, we'll need every weapon we can get."

Neville's jaw tightened. He didn't like to admit it, but Hermione was right. "Or we could have Padfoot and Moony make another," he suggested.

"I like that idea better," she confessed. "And perhaps we could convince them to make something like that for the Isle." She nodded slightly, relegating that idea to a distant corner of her mind. "I'll go check the Slytherin common rooms. You get Saysa."

"Are you sure that's safe? You're Muggleborn, and you know how a lot of Slytherin purebloods act around Muggleborns."

"You're a Gryffindor," the Ravenclaw retorted, but she stopped moving.

Fortunately, Daphne Greengrass solved their dilemma by walking around the corner, nose buried in their Transfiguration text.

Neville practically jumped on her, knocking her book aside. Ears burning, he fumbled for it, trying to catch the tome before it hit the ground. He managed to stop it, but only barely. Mumbling apologies, he passed it to its owner.

The Daughter of Frost accepted it, arching a cool, mildly amused brow. "I take it you were looking for me?"

"And Blaise and Harry," Hermione acknowledged. She kept her voice light and casual, conscious of the portraits surrounding them. They were Dumbledore's spies, each and every one of them. Her agile brain scrambled for a code that only her allies would understand. "We think we've made a breakthrough with that one Better than Binns sheet, the one about Livonian history."

The other girl's expression didn't change. "Too bad that breakthrough didn't come two weeks ago when the Latvians broke into their Ministry."

"I know, but better late than never."

"I'll go tell them," Daphne promised. _We'll meet you there,_ her eyes declared.

"Thanks."

* * *

><p>It was quite a crowd that came to hear the werewolf's tale: the prophesied five (in their Fae forms), a basilisk, a clan of black garter snakes (who had moved to Founder's Isle in March), an escaped convict, three Hebridean Blacks, a Norwegian Ridgeback, and Dudley Dursley.<p>

Tyr's eyes met Harry's. "You were right," he announced without aplomb. "There _is_ a cure for lycanthropy- at least there _was _three hundred years ago- and Thiess _did_ track it down." A bitter smile twisted his face.

"When I arrived in Livonia, the first thing I did was travel to Jurgenburg. I tried to find the building where Thiess's trial took place, but it didn't exist anymore. After asking around for a bit, I hunted down the local Ministry outpost. Unlike us, they have several Ministry offices besides the one in their capital, and Jurgenburg is large enough to merit its own outpost. They founded that particular branch back in the fifteen hundreds, so I reasoned that they would have the transcript from Thiess's trial.

"By then people had started to notice me, so I took work there. That managed to satisfy the locals' suspicions. Besides, Pollux's thousand Galleons wouldn't last forever, and as an employee I'd have access to places civilians weren't allowed- namely the archives. Thanks to the Language Lozenges, no one realized I was a foreigner, so they trusted me implicitly.

"In February they finally allowed me into the historical records. I searched for hours- it nearly got me fired for sluggishness- before admitting to myself that there was no mention of Thiess.

"It was all too possible that the records had been lost or destroyed- the trial was three hundred years ago- but something told me that wasn't right. Other documents from the same time period or even earlier were in perfect condition, so why wasn't this one?

"The other werewolves say I'm paranoid. Maybe I am, maybe I'm not. In this case, though, my paranoia paid off. One of my co-workers from the records department told me that Thiess's trial was stored at the main building in the capital.

"The next day, I went to my superior and requested a transfer to Riga. She was sorry to see me go, but I wore her down over the next few weeks. In late March, the paperwork was completed and I moved to my new job.

"The main building was larger than Jurgenburg's, so it took me a while to find the records section." He scowled. "And it took me even longer to realize that Thiess's trial wasn't there either."

"What?" interrupted Neville.

Tyr glared. The Gryffindor blushed. "My apologies."

The werewolf resumed his narrative. "It turns out that sensitive records, the ones they pretend don't exist, are stored elsewhere. This is mostly because the Livonians share a capital with the Latvians, and they and Estonia are constantly squabbling over whether or not Livonia is really an independent state. They're even more paranoid than I am, and with good reason- they've had problems with Latvian spies trying to prove that Wizarding Livonia should be annexed like Muggle Livonia was." He scowled. "But that's getting off-topic.

"Over the next few weeks, I managed to learn that Thiess's records were hidden in a secret room in their version of the Department of Mysteries. By then I was getting impatient- I'd been searching for this cure my entire life. So instead of waiting, scouting, and planning like an intelligent person would do, I slapped together some half-baked scheme and broke into the Ministry earlier this month.

"To make a long story short, I was interrupted by a team of Aurors on my way out. Fortunately, I'd already found the records on Thiess, so it wasn't too much of a tragedy. They chased me, I fought back, escaped to Kuressaare, laid low until the search died down, and finally came here."

His audience was nearly bursting with impatience. "What did you find?" Harry demanded.

Tyr met his eyes, unblinking, face calm and cold as flint. "Thiess was banished. But instead of immigrating to Estonia or Latvia where he at least knew the language, he came to the British Isles. He died a year later in a failed attempt to rob the Department of Historical Artifacts." The werewolf glanced outside, acknowledging the sunset and impending moonrise. "You'd better leave. I can give you a more detailed report in the morning."

"Yes," agreed Hermione. "Besides, we have somewhere we need to be, right, Pollux?"

The Parselmouth nodded. In the excitement over Tyr's return, he'd almost forgotten what else happened on the full moon. "We'll be back around noon," he decided. "Give you a chance to sleep in. You'll need it."

"I always do," Tyr acknowledged. His mouth curled into a smile. "But soon that will change."

"Ere summer's end," Blaise murmured, eyes distant.

The werewolf arched a brow. "That a prophecy?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "I hope so."

"Harry, what's the Department of Historical Artifacts?" wondered Hermione.

"I'll tell you later," he promised, staring worriedly into the sunset. Behind him, the full moon dominated the eastern skies. "Besides, we should wait for Saysa." They'd left the basilisk back on Founders' Isle in case Sirius's hastily erected wards broke. If Tyr's feral wolf-self escaped, she would petrify him. The humans would revive him in the morning with their stash of restorative draught (because with a basilisk keeping them company it would be foolish to not have any antidote to Petrification).

"Sorry," the witch mumbled, embarrassed.

Harry drew the rowan bow, aimed, and fired; two more arrows followed in short succession.

Hermione forced herself to remain patient. After all, she was witnessing a ritual that hadn't been performed for centuries, so it was ridiculous to obsess over some obscure Ministerial office. Still, she knew what would happen in the ritual- she'd gone over it in great detail with the others- and hadn't heard one thing about the Department of Historical Artifacts. Not knowing nagged at her, made her squirm with impatience.

She forced her attention onto Harry, who had just finished circling the dead rath. He was chanting now, sibilant words in a dead tongue. Saysa had translated it for them back in November, and Hermione had memorized both the original text and its English meaning. She mouthed the words with him, not daring to speak lest her voice disturb the ritual.

The chanting Parselmouth raised his arms, and the ones observing him flinched. They knew blood was necessary, and that they themselves might have to give blood for this spell, but no one liked watching a friend deliberately harm himself.

Blood rained down on the ground, followed by the silver athame.

Light erupted, engulfing the circle and drowning out the twilit shadows. It shifted through the primary colors before blazing white and vanishing.

There was an odd clicking noise, like keys shifting in a long-locked door. Hermione gasped. For a second, she tasted something wild and heady and spicy.

The faerie knight appeared, just as he had last time. Hermione met his gaze- and the world _changed. _

The serpent sight erupted into being, lighting up the dim world with colored brilliance. The knight shone with hues she had never seen before, shades that were impossible in the human world: something that might have been related to purple, oily mother-of-pearl, another like white blackness or black whiteness. Her eyes burned, and she quickly looked down at the rath.

Hermione's stomach lurched.

The ground was… swirling. Like a black hole or whirlpool, it sucked in light and color, disgorging something else, something magical and inhuman.

What had they _done?_

You have brought back the magic, Messenger of Truth. The not-voice filled her mind, pressing her ear drums out to make room. And in doing so, you have earned your just reward. 

The knight reached out, grabbing at the invisible cords of color. It shifted, unnaturalness melting away. He dropped the light, and it moved- straight towards Hermione and her friends.

The witch shrieked, jumping backwards in a vain attempt to avoid the writhing tendril. Her companions, unable to see the invisible threat, gawked at her in amazement.

The beam hit them at the same time- but nothing happened. Hermione stared at herself, wondering what in the name of _Merlin _was going on.

The faerie knight spoke again, his not-voice tinged with amusement. Magic. 

Hermione did not know if she came to understand his message on her own or if he had given her the information, but suddenly she knew what he was talking about. Her mouth formed a tiny o of astonishment.

_Magic. _

"Are you all right?" whispered Daphne. Her eyes flickered back and forth between the rider and her friend.

"I'm fine," the elder witch replied. "I'll tell you about it later." She raised her voice. "Sir knight, do you have enough vials for all of us?"

He did not reply, either silently or out loud. Instead, he walked over to Harry and handed him five crystal vials. Then he was gone.

"I hate the Fae," the Animagus moaned.

"Ditto," Blaise agreed. "They're…."

"_Exactly." _Harry turned to his Ravenclaw friend. "You all right, Hermione?"

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. "I'm fine. It's just…" She shook her head. "Magic. Harry, that was magic. No, no, of course it was magic- you already knew that- but you don't know…." She shrugged helplessly. "When he looked at me- you know how I've been experimenting with replicating Saysa's sight, and I thought I had it under control- but I didn't. I saw it. I _saw_ the magic, the portal- it was eating the world."

"What?" Her friends' appalled shrieks cut through the night like Harry's magic had cut through the worlds.

Hermione hastened to explain. "No, not eating the world, not exactly; it was more like it was sucking in all the world's used, decayed magic, like a black hole or whirlpool. And then it… it gave the magic back, but it was stronger, brighter, more powerful- and so are we."

It was obvious that no one understood. She hissed in frustration, both with them and with herself. "The Fae- they somehow renew our magic, make it stronger. No, I don't think it's our magic, exactly- more like the natural magic that exists in solstices and full moons, the kind we tap for rituals but can't really control. And because we were here when the rath revived, some of that power came into us." Her eyes were bright in the moonlight, though whether from fear or awe not even Hermione knew. "Every time we perform this ritual, we get stronger."

"Whoa." Blaise's exclamation was nothing more than a breathy whisper.

"At least," the Ravenclaw continued, "parts of us do- the parts more connected to the wilder side of magic- Neville's plant gift, your Seeing, my wards…. I don't know about the magic that needs wands, but that might be growing stronger as well."

Harry's face whitened. "What about-" He gestured frantically to his scar. "D'you think that made it stronger?"

Nausea bubbled in her stomach. "I- I didn't think of that. We should have Saysa take a look- she's more experienced with this than I am."

"If it did, you can't do this anymore," Blaise proclaimed. "It's already hard to get that Horcrux out; if it gets stronger, it'll be impossible."

Harry shuddered, looking almost as sick as Hermione felt. Merlin and Morgana, what had they _done?_


	5. Dreamer's Dreams

_A dream itself is but a shadow. –Hamlet_ 2.2.245

They Portkeyed back to the Chamber, but the serpent in question wasn't there. It wasn't surprising- Saysa had been spending a great deal of time with the local centaur tribe, who were obsessively pestering her for information on the prophecies- but the five humans were more than a little annoyed.

"Should we try to find her?" Hermione wondered, staring down the Chamber's exit. "I think we can handle ourselves in the Forbidden Forest at night." It was testimony to how worried they all were that the bushy-haired Ravenclaw had suggested they break one of the school's most important rules. She was fine with their centaur-guided classes or following Hagrid and Saysa when they were in danger, but obedience to authority was so deeply ingrained that she rarely ventured into the woods without a very, very good reason.

"No," Harry mumbled, fumbling for his wand. A streak of silver erupted from its tip, shooting into the black wilderness.

"You have got to teach us that," Blaise quipped, trying to lighten the situation.

"Yeah. I'll put on my schedule," he muttered.

They waited in tense silence, not daring to break the darkness. Finally Neville could bear it no longer. He flailed about mentally for an appropriate, not-related-in-any-way-shape-or-form-to-Horcruxes topic, finally settling on, "So when are we taking the Animagus Potion? It's almost ready."

"After exams but before we go home," Hermione replied tensely. Her tone demanded a return to silence, and Neville obeyed.

They stood there, fidgeting in the half-light of the Chamber, for almost half an hour before Saysa bustled in, wide-eyed and worried-looking. "What's wrong?" she inquired.

"I need you to look at the Horcrux." Harry answered without aplomb, without anything but deadly seriousness.

The serpent-woman nodded, confused. She shut her magnificent golden eyes for a moment before focusing them on Harry's scar. Her brow furrowed. "What am I looking for?"

"Just…." The Slytherin couldn't continue.

"Is there anything unusual about it?" Daphne queried for him. "Anything that wasn't there before?"

"No," she replied, perplexed. "I see no difference. The foul thing is the same as it always has been."

The Parselmouth's taut shoulders relaxed. "Thank Merlin," he breathed.

With that unpleasant bit of business out of the way, the quintet explained their encounter with the faerie knight. Hermione did most of the talking- after all, it was she who had actually heard the messenger's voice- but her friends added in details that she'd been too distracted to notice.

In their terror over the Horcrux, they had forgotten all about the Ravenclaw's surge of involuntary magic. Now, though, they were free to discuss the implications of her unwanted serpent sight.

"Do you think it will happen again?" she worried.

"Maybe, especially if you still want to restore the raths." Blaise shrugged. "But maybe if you're prepared for it, it won't happen."

"I don't think you should use that spell again, Hermione," Neville confessed. "We already have Saysa and the dragons; you don't need to do it ever again. Maybe if you don't, you can restore the raths without worrying about seeing that vortex thing."

"Maybe," she agreed grudgingly. Then she sighed. "Yes, I suppose you're right. It _was_ rather foolish to do something so unnecessary. But what if simply quitting isn't enough?"

Harry took control. "You shouldn't do this ritual next month. Come with me or Daphne or someone; see if the sight flares then before trying it on your own."

"Good idea," she replied, "but what if it does come back?"

The Parselmouth grimaced. "I have no idea," he confessed. "We'll just have to cross that hurdle if and when we come to it."

Deciding that this particular topic had had enough attention, Neville turned to Saysa. "What do you think of Tyr's return?" She was the oldest and wisest of them; she would know what to do. "I've never heard of this Department of Historical Artifacts."

"That's because it doesn't exist anymore," Harry explained, not giving the serpent-woman a chance to answer. "About a hundred years ago, people lost interest in history. Most of the artifacts were given to the Department of Mysteries, where they are currently rotting in a storage room." He smirked. "Funnily enough, this happened around the time Binns's students started graduating."

Saysa's mouth thinned. She'd heard a _lot_ about Binns, and she did _not _approve. The school was her home, had been for over a thousand years, and she loathed seeing it so corrupt. "A pity you did not curse him as well, Harry."

He slapped his forehead. "Why didn't I think of that? It's too late for this year, but I promise he'll be gone by next July."

"Hallelujah," moaned Hermione.

"Amen," Blaise agreed fervently.

"Back on topic," Daphne cut in, "what are we going to do about Tyr's information? We obviously can't just go to the Ministry and ask. Is it possible to buy the artifact or potion, whichever it may be, or will we have to steal it?"

They looked to Harry, the only one who'd ever heard of the Department of Historical Artifacts. "It's not. You can't even access lists of artifacts without becoming an Unspeakable. Voldemort tried- he'd heard rumors that they had artifacts from the Founders, and he wanted to use them for Horcruxes- but he had to break into the archives just to learn if they were real. They weren't, by the way."

"Good," murmured Saysa. The thought of another of her friends' prized possessions being transformed into a vessel for the foul human's soul was absolutely sickening. Besides, every Horcrux made him that much harder to kill. Even with only two remaining (_only_ two? It was still worse than anyone had done before, still two too many), he was immortal, a cancerous plague that just kept coming back and back.

"I wonder why." Blaise tilted his head, speculating. "Not about the Founders' artifacts, though I wouldn't mind finding one that would help me with Seeing, but why they're so hush-hush about these things."

"They're quiet about everything in the Department of Mysteries," Daphne reminded him. "A better question would be why did they choose to place the artifacts there instead of, say, Magical Equipment Control?"

"Because as things, places, memories grow older, they also grow in size." Saysa's golden eyes were sad. "I have seen it many, many times. Take the rivalry between Godric and Salazar. Yes, they loved to compete, but there was no malice between them. Now their so-called hatred is the stuff of legends."

"You should write this down." Everyone turned to Hermione, who blushed. "A memoir, I mean. At least, you should think about it once the battle is over."

An odd, troubled look flitted across her face, but then it was hidden under a smile. "An excellent idea. You are correct; I should, and I will. Thank you."

"Are you all right, Saysa?" Hermione's brow furrowed.

She smiled. "Yes. I was just remembering them, trying to imagine how they would have reacted to these rumors."

Something about her explanation seemed off to her, but the Ravenclaw knew better than to comment. Blaise brought them back on topic. "So basically there were so many rumors and myths about the things in the Department of Historical Artifacts that when it closed down, they decided better safe than sorry and hid them in the Department of Mysteries?"

"I guess," Harry shrugged. "I'd have to look at the official paperwork to be sure, but that sounds pretty plausible."

"I really hope we don't have to break into the Ministry," Neville sighed, "but if we do- Harry, you still have those memories of his break-in, right?"

"Right. And I have the nasty feeling that we'll need every one of them."

* * *

><p><em>The moon was bright, brighter and clearer than he had ever seen it. Its rays shafted down, covering the fresh snowfall beneath the naked youth's feet. He shivered, breath puffing, rubbing his arms. <em>

_Another man stepped out of the shadows of the grove. He, too, was naked, but he did not shiver as the youth did. "You have come here to make a great sacrifice, the greatest you will ever make. You have come to give up your freedom, your humanity, and perhaps your very life. If you continue on this path, you will know loss, hunger, thirst, pain. If you turn back now, none will hold it against you." _

"_I will not." The younger man forced himself to stop shivering, though his lips and fingers were blue with cold. "I will join you, and I will fight until my dying day." _

_A smile crossed the elder's face. "Then join us." He lunged- and _changed_. _

_Dark fur, clawed paws, tufted tail, amber eyes- the beast fell upon the youth, biting and howling. The watcher tried to help, tried to save him, but he had no physical form and was as helpless as the youth. _

_And then it was over. The large, wolf-like creature backed away, maw still wet with blood. The youth fell, twitching and trembling. One hand clutched the opposite arm, trying to stop the bleeding. _

_The beast shifted again. Bones reformed, fur melting into human flesh. The elder calmly wiped the blood from his mouth and walked to the center of the clearing. His reddened hands tightened around _something_ that had been sitting on the stone, something that seemed to glow. The watcher squinted, but all he could make out was an indistinct pattern of shadows upon the dazzling brightness. Solemn and silent, the man walked over to his victim, handed him the cup. _

_The youth drank- and, like the elder before him, _changed.

"Hey, Blaise, get up before you make us late for Tyr."

The Seer jerked up with an undignified shriek. Harry started. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he panted. "I just had a really weird dream about a guy who asked a werewolf to bite him."

"Must be because of Tyr."

"Probably." The older Slytherin wasn't convinced. "But still… it kind of reminded me of those prophetic dreams I got after Halloween, the ones that warned about Malfoy." He rubbed his eyes, shifted his weight. "But at the same time, I know it's not a prophecy."

"Weird," muttered Harry. "Let's ask Saysa about it. She grew up with Seers; maybe she knows something we don't."

"I can't wait until Divination starts," his friend muttered fervently.

"I have the nasty feeling we'll need to know what these dreams mean months before third year."

"I have the nasty feeling you're right."

* * *

><p>It had been a long, awful night. Dudley had heard all about werewolves from Remus Lupin- and since the wizard was a werewolf himself, the Muggle was inclined to believe him. He knew that werewolves were tough and difficult to contain, and he'd spent hours tossing and turning in bed, worrying that Tyr would somehow escape. The wizard was nice enough- while he was human. He had no desire to meet the wolf.<p>

He fell asleep a couple hours before dawn, and his dreams were filled with slavering fangs and feral eyes. The Muggle was grateful when Sirius shook him awake.

"Tough night?" the Animagus guessed.

"Yeah. I mean, he's nice, but…."

"I know." Padfoot shuddered, remembering the first time he'd seen Moony change: the blankness in his eyes, the terrible fangs, and the snarl rising from the back of his throat. "Trust me, kid, I know. But hopefully that'll be over soon."

Dudley shrugged. "Hopefully." He didn't buy it. Even if the cure for lycanthropy had survived the thousands of years it had been missing, how could anyone get it from the bowels of the Ministry? But then, he realized with a start, Azkaban was impenetrable too…. Yes, if anyone could save the werewolves, Pollux could.

But Dudley still didn't like him.

After a quick breakfast of blackened toast, the wizard and Muggle made their way to Tyr's new cottage. Pallas answered the door. "Did you sleep well?"

"Fine," Dudley lied. Sirius muttered something similar.

"Lo, Padfoot." Remus Lupin, gray and tired after last night's transformation, waved at them from the corner. "Morning, Dudley."

The change had not been kind to either werewolf. Remus was covered in swollen scratches. Tyr's arms were speckled with tooth marks, and Dudley had no doubt that his legs were as well.

Since the younger werewolf hadn't heard the story of Tyr's adventures in Livonia, the grizzled alpha quickly summarized what had happened. Then Pollux gave a brief history of the Department of Historical Artifacts and its absorption into the Department of Mysteries.

"Break into the Ministry?" Remus sounded nervous.

"Probably," Tyr replied. "Most wizards- present company excepted- loathe us already. If we could control the change, bite people whenever we wanted…." He trailed off, eyes dark. "It would not be pretty."

Remus hid his head in his hands. "So even if we could cure the madness, we couldn't tell anyone about it because then they might set out on a campaign of genocide."

Dudley wanted to ask what genocide was, but the serious looks on the adults' faces convinced him to wait. Whatever it was, it was quite plainly Very Bad.

Pollux exchanged nervous looks with his comrades. "If worst comes to worst, we can always bring you to Founder's Isle."

"Anything is better than the CC," Tyr growled.

"But all these plans are irrelevant unless we find a way to acquire the cure," Bianca pointed out. "Pollux, you know more about the Department of Mysteries than any of us. Is there any possible way we could gain access to the cure without breaking three dozen laws?"

"Yeah."

"Really?"

"Some ways only break _two _dozen laws."

Her eyes fluttered shut. "Very well, then, we'll obviously have to construct a plan to steal it."

Dudley shuddered. Why, oh why were wizards so backwards? In the Muggle world, all they would have to do is prove that the cure worked, and the government would take care of everything else. Admittedly, it would take several billion pounds and at least six years, not to mention far too much posturing and politicizing, but they would still do it. The Ministry of Magic, though, would probably destroy it before doing the geno-thing Remus had mentioned. Governments were supposed to help people, to protect them from others and from their own stupidity. Muggle governments… well, they didn't do that either, but at least they tried, most of the time.

"Getting into the Ministry itself is pretty easy," Apollo noted. "All you have to do is answer a couple of questions- you know, name and purpose- and walk inside." He smiled reminiscently. "I once told the security system that I was Lord Voldemort coming to assassinate the Minister, enslave all the employees, and raze the building to the ground. Do you know what the security said to me?"

"Have a nice day?" guessed Alexander.

"No. It wished me luck."

Sirius made an odd little choking noise. "Sadly enough, I'm not surprised. I pulled something like that once, too, except I was Grindelwald instead of Voldemort."

Pollux cleared his throat. "His point is, we don't have to worry about actually entering the Ministry. It's breaching the Department of Mysteries that poses a problem." He drew his wand. Light shot from its tip, forming pictures in the air. "You can only access it by going through a room with twelve doors." A circle with twelve slots floated gently in the air. "None of the doors can be opened until all the others are closed." The slots slid shut. "Once the doors are closed, though, they all start to spin." The circle room rotated rapidly. Dudley blinked away spots. "The doors are identical, so there's no way of knowing which you need to enter."

Pallas chewed her lip. "Perhaps if we put some kind of mark on the doors before they swing shut, we could find our way around."

"Good idea," congratulated Pollux. "Unless they've changed the layout, the storage area is one door counterclockwise from the entrance. They reasoned that if anyone tried to break down the walls of the hallway leading back to the main Ministry, they'd only find something relatively worthless."

Dudley stared at him for several seconds before realizing that he wasn't joking. Well, he supposed, it was… practical… messed-up, certainly, but still practical. He was tempted to ask what was on the other side before deciding that that really wasn't an appropriate conversation topic.

"The door actually leads to a hallway of records, which are pathetically easy to access. All you have to do is give a description of what you're looking for- physical characteristics, supposed magical properties, past owners, myths- and it will give you a list."

"Pity," sighed Tyr. "If I'd known this, I would've done more to find a description."

"A cup or goblet of some kind," Saysa murmured, "probably silver."

"Liquid moonlight." Apollo's voice was soft, lost.

"Your dream," Pollux replied, surprised.

"I guess."

"What dream?" demanded Pallas. "Did you see a vision of the cure?"

"Can Seers See the past?" His gaze fixated on Saysa, who nodded slowly.

"It is a rare gift, rarer even than sight of the future, but it is not unheard of. My… the four Seers I knew before could not, but… the younger woman knew one who could."

"Care to explain?" Tyr growled.

Apollo met his gaze coolly. "I'm a Seer, as you may have guessed, a dreamer to be exact. I See- more like glimpse- the future through my dreams. Now, apparently, I can do the same with the past." He described his two werewolf-related dreams to his audience. "At first I didn't think anything of them, but now I'm not so sure. No, I _am_ sure- I'm sure that they're real."

"Last night was the full moon," blurted Alexander. The others fixed him with withering and/or confused stares. "When was the first dream?"

"May first."

Alexander shot Pollux a significant look. "Do you think it has anything to do with… with what you were doing both those nights?"

Dudley hated it when the adults started talking over his head. He took some small consolation from the confused expressions of Sirius, Remus, and Tyr- they didn't know about Saysa's four Seers or what Pollux had been up to on the first- but it was still pretty insulting to be talked down at, no matter how much company he had.

Pallas leapt to her feet, eyes bright with excitement. "Of course it does! It must- the knight told me- and the different types of magic-" Her eyes glazed over. "Oh, this is incredible!"

Bianca cleared her throat. "_Pallas._" She drew out the word, putting far too much emphasis on a mere name.

The Indian woman's dark cheeks went red. "Yes. Sorry, all. Apollo, are you sure you couldn't see any details on the cup?"

He heaved a sigh. "Sorry, Pallas. I'll try harder next time, if I ever get another of these dreams."

"You will, I think."

Something passed between the six adults, some reference to events and circumstances Dudley knew nothing about. He had the odd feeling that Pallas was right.

"Back on topic," Tyr growled. "What happens once you have the list?"

What list? Dudley wanted to ask, but it seemed that everyone else remembered. He searched his memory and finally discovered that 'the list' would tell whether or not this Chalice was in the Department of Mysteries.

"The list will give information on the object that you didn't ask for and direct you to where it's being kept. Unfortunately, I don't know anything more. The Ministry didn't have any of the artifacts my source was looking for, so he never went any further than the records room."

"Maybe we should ask your source for more information," Sirius suggested- quite reasonably, in Dudley's opinion. "Maybe he broke into it after your last conversation, or maybe he got more information. Anything could help."

An odd, bitter smile crossed Pollux's face. He did not bother trying to hide it. "He hasn't."

Padfoot hesitated, not understanding the other man's tone. "It couldn't hurt to owl him and ask," he pointed out. "Or we could Floo him, talk to him in person. I wouldn't even mind traveling to- say, where is he, anyways?"

Pollux's eyes grew distant. "Albania," he mumbled, sounding like a man entranced. The hairs on Dudley's neck stiffened. "Hiding in the Albanian woods, reduced to stealing life from tiny creatures to stay strong- at least, as strong as he is now."

Saysa hissed something in Parseltongue, the snake language she and Pollux spoke and the other adults understood. The wizard's eyes, which had been fluttering shut, snapped open.

Nobody dared to speak. All eyes fixated on Pollux's stunned, horrified face, watching the emotions flit across it before it settled into a blankness that didn't quite hide the fear in his eyes. "The point is he's not going to help. He's physically incapable of it at the moment, and he has no desire to actually help anyone but himself. Besides, I doubt you'd _want_ his help."

"Where were we?" Pallas's voice was higher than normal, almost shrill.

"We were discussing how no one knows what's beyond the record room," Alexander piped up helpfully. "You said the records tell where the artifacts are hidden, right?"

"I did." Pollux's voice was flat, hard.

The other man chewed his lip. Dudley wasn't surprised. The black wizard was quiet even when his leader wasn't in such a bad mood. Then he bit the bullet and blurted out such a bizarre, utterly random question that everyone turned to gawk at him: "Can Sisith read?"

As usual, Pallas recovered her voice first. "I don't think so. Why?"

Alexander looked away. "I thought that if he could read, he could sneak past the records room and see if the doors were labeled. Maybe, if the doors weren't shut, he could even go inside and look around."

A wide smile nearly split Apollo's face. "That's brilliant, Al. Even if he can't read, _we_ can."

"Explain," Bianca ordered.

"The Pensieve, remember? If Sisith is willing to do this, we could just extract his memories and walk around the Department. We might even be able to bypass the records room entirely."

Bianca graced them with a tiny smile. "I think I like that plan."

* * *

><p>So they have a plan. Dudley is confused, Harry is nervous, and Saysa is writing a memoir. Next chapter, Sisith will enter the DoM and Sirius will come to a wild but not unfounded conclusion about his hosts.<p> 


	6. Inconsistencies

_Wisely, and slow. They stumble that run fast. –Romeo and Juliet_ 2.3.94

Sisith the garden snake was a creature of simple pleasures. He liked Harry, he liked his family, he got on very well with Norberta (at least, he usually did. No one was friendly with dragons all the time). Most of all, though, he liked excitement, adventure, thrill. So when Harry asked him to infiltrate the Ministry of Magic's most dangerous, elusive department in search of a magical artifact that had been lost for centuries, he simply grinned and asked, "**When do I leave?" **

"**How does now sound?" **

They were gone in ten minutes, just enough time for Sisith to eat and Harry to brief him on the Ministry's pathetic security. The serpent laughed. **"It's a miracle your government hasn't killed you all yet." **

"**I know,"** Harry sighed. He shifted into his Fae form, and Pollux's deeper voice ordered, **"Stay hidden."**

The Parselmouth Apparated to Hogsmeade. He didn't bother disguising himself - only the teenage girls, his allies, and the inhabitants of Founders' Isle had seen Pollux Ophion Riddle's face.

He walked into the Hog's Head, Sisith hidden on his arm. After downing a butterbeer to remain inconspicuous (no one paid attention to just another customer, even if he hadn't ordered the bar's famed firewhiskey), he wandered over to the fireplace and Flooed to the Ministry. Humming a mindless, innocent little tune, he walked across the Atrium, just like a hundred other witches and wizards.

If it hadn't been for the flustered, hurried witch who darted into the elevator just before the doors closed, the trip would have gone without a hitch.

She was an older woman, perhaps Professor McGonagall's age. She bore a vague resemblance to Harry's "aunt" Marge, but friendlier and without the moustache. The witch's florid face lit up when she saw her travelling companion. "Tom!" she exclaimed, drawing every eye in the crowded elevator to herself. "How lovely to see you!"

Every eye in the crowded elevator turned to face Harry, who silently cursed the Winter Queen and her atrocious sense of humor. He bared his teeth in an expression that hopefully resembled a friendly smile. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but my father died eleven years ago."

It was true; James Potter had left that world on Halloween of 1981, little more than a decade before. It was also true that Tom Riddle had 'died' on that same date, so he wasn't technically lying about anything. It was an elusion worthy of the Fae.

"Oh!" The woman's already-pinkish face turned bright red. "Oh! I'm terribly sorry about that, I didn't- oops, here's my stop!" She ran out, even more flustered than before. Most of the elevator's other inhabitants followed. The few remaining eyes bored into Harry's skull. He ignored them.

No one else was headed to the Department of Mysteries, so Harry and Sisith had a few seconds alone in the elevator. **"Who was that?"** the serpent wondered.

"**Probably one of his old schoolmates,**" Harry growled. **"I think her name was Jane Spencer, but she was a year younger and in a different House, so he didn't bother remembering much about her. She's not really good minion material." **

"**You can say that again." **The elevator dinged, and the disguised Parselmouth ambled down the hall to the unprotected door to one of the most secure places in magical Britain.

"…**They really need better security." **

"**In the words of a wise snake I know, you can say that again."** Harry indulged in a brief grin. **"When should I come to get you?" **

"**Four days,"** Sisith decided. **"I don't know how big this place is, but that should be enough. I'll curl up in that corner there and wait for you." **They passed the corner in question to enter the room of revolving doors. Before he closed the door to the entryway, Harry marked it with a blinding blue X.

The room whirled, black blurring into black with only a small flash of blue to break the monotony; when it was over, Harry continued their conversation as though nothing had happened. **"I'll probably come sometime in the early afternoon, around lunch." **

"**Speaking of lunch, bring me some when you come back. I'll probably be hungry." **

The Parselmouth chuckled softly, opening the door next to the blue-marked exit. **"I will. Good luck." **

"**Who needs luck?" **Sisith laughed as the Portkey whirled his companion away. **"If it's there, I'll find it. That's a promise."**

* * *

><p>"Professor Dumbledore?" Mark Potter's voice was lost, confused. "I…." As he had many times before, the boy trailed off, unwilling to speak the thoughts which had plagued him for days.<p>

The headmaster forced a gentle laugh. "I know, Mark. Exams can be very stressful. When I was your age, I had trouble sleeping and eating, but don't worry. I am confident that you'll perform most excellently."

"It's not exams," the ersatz Boy-Who-Lived confessed.

Dumbledore took a sip of his tea, waiting. As always, his patience was rewarded.

"I…I was there when Lockhart and Snape were attacked," he whispered, not meeting the old man's eyes. He was blinking very rapidly, his face red and miserable. "But I didn't do anything. I sat around and let those spider things eat them."

The headmaster pretended to misunderstand. "The staff at St. Mungo's has assured me that both your teachers will be fine, though I doubt either will return next year." A pity that. Severus at least was useful, though fortunately not irreplaceable. "I will tell them about your concern." He wouldn't, of course. Best to sever all ties between Mark and his other mentor. Severus was another matter- he wouldn't listen even if Dumbledore did deliver the boy's message.

"That's not it," he whimpered, frustrated. "I _didn't save them._ I was right there, and I didn't save them. I'm the Boy-Who-Lived. I should have saved them."

"Don't blame yourself, Mark," Dumbledore advised. "You were caught off guard, and despite your experience with Voldemort, you aren't accustomed to facing animalistic foes."

"I should have saved them," he insisted.

Dumbledore waited.

"I need more experience," Mark mumbled. "I need to… maybe I should go out and find those spiders?"

"Brave of you," his headmaster commented. The Gryffindor looked up, startled. He'd forgotten anyone else was in the room with him. "However, I've no doubt that the acromantulas have left the Forbidden Forest. Something frightened them, chased them away."

A thousand emotions crossed Mark's face: surprise, confusion, indignation, realization. If he proved himself against whatever had frightened the spiders… if he defeated the creature that made the beasts who'd defeated him flee in terror… he would more than make up for his perceived cowardice earlier that month. He would be a hero again, and his fame would receive a healthy boost. Perhaps he could even fill some of the immense niche that Gilderoy had so suddenly vacated.

The boy changed the subject to tiny things, inconsequential things; a child's attempt at hiding his true thoughts. Albus let him- even without Legilimency, he knew what Mark was thinking. He wanted his glory back, his confidence, and his self-esteem.

And he would have it. All it would take were a few questions to Hagrid, a lesson from Professor Binns, an introduction to Moaning Myrtle…. He would need to drop several dozen hints, of course, but by summer's end Mark Potter would set foot in the Chamber of Secrets, and its Guardian would be no more.

* * *

><p>Something was nagging him, and he didn't know what.<p>

Sirius growled softly, an action more suited to his canine form than his current human body. Kreacher was there in a pop. "Does master need anything? Wine, water, food?" He actually looked concerned, which still boggled Sirius's mind.

"I'm fine," the Animagus sighed, plopping into one of the Black library's ancient reading chairs. "It's just that something's wrong with how Pollux got sick, and I can't figure out how to help him unless I know exactly what's wrong."

"As Kreacher's mistress, master's sweet late mother, grew older and even wiser than before, she often solved problems by speaking her thoughts aloud."

Talking to oneself: the first sign of madness. Sirius wasn't surprised. "And it worked?"

"Of course!" Flames filled the house-elf's eyes. "Master's mother was pure of blood and brilliant! Mistress was always successful, not like some of the filthy-"

Padfoot blurted out the first thing that crossed his mind: "If it worked for her, it'll work for me."

"Master is wise, just like master's mother. Master will succeed."

"…Right. Thanks for the… advice, Kreacher."

"Kreacher is not worthy of receiving master's thanks. Still, Kreacher is humbly grateful towards master for saying such things. Master is a good master." He popped away.

Sirius was loath to do anything his mother had done, but plenty of other people talked through their problems and found solutions. "All right," he mumbled to himself, "fact one: whatever's wrong with Pollux is the result of a curse Voldemort put on him when he was a baby." A stunned, incredulous pause, "That was fast." The Animagus pushed himself out of the creaking chair, began to pace through the library's crowded shelves.

Pollux seemed to be in his mid-thirties, a few years older than Sirius himself. Voldemort hadn't been truly active until Padfoot was almost in Hogwarts. That left several possibilities. The first and most obvious was that Voldemort had hunted Pollux down in infancy, years before his other acts of terror, and placed some kind of Dark curse on the helpless baby.

But that didn't make any sense. Why would Voldemort do that, and why Pollux? The man was clearly extraordinary, but he couldn't have exhibited these characteristics that early on. And even if Voldemort had selected Pollux, how would Pollux have known? And most importantly, why had he waited so long before seeking a cure?

Sirius wasn't stupid; he'd overheard the other wizards discuss their leader's illness, and he knew that they hadn't started researching until January. Did that mean Pollux hadn't known about his curse until earlier that year?

The wizard groaned; too many questions, not enough answers.

The second theory was that Pollux had lied, that he'd gotten this ugly curse somewhere else. But why would he lie? People didn't exactly boast about their association with the Dark Lord. Therefore, he was probably telling the truth that Voldemort was responsible for his mysterious condition, but he was lying about when that had occurred.

An ugly suspicion pooled in the pit of Sirius's stomach. If Pollux had been close enough to be cursed by Voldemort… why was he still alive? The Dark Lord always went for the kill.

Except with Death Eaters. He had no doubt that the Dark Mark was a foul, twisted piece of magic, but the Death Eaters survived _that._ Who knew what else Voldemort might do with his followers?

The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Pollux knew all sorts of Dark magic; he'd known how to remove the curses on the Black library's book just by Transfiguring the cover from flesh to leather. He'd known that Sirius was innocent, that Pettigrew was the true criminal- but _how?_ He doubted that anyone outside of Voldemort's Inner Circle knew the identity of his spy. Then there were the Horcruxes- how would he have known anything about them, much less how to locate and destroy the foul things, unless he was someone whom Voldemort had once trusted implicitly? Regulus had turned back to the Light; what could have stopped another, higher-ranking Death Eater from doing the same?

There was only one possible explanation, outlandish and wild though it was: Pollux Ophion Riddle was a reformed Death Eater.

But that left him with another question: what about the others? He couldn't imagine Alexander Chamberlain in the black robes and white mask- but then, he couldn't imagine Pollux like that, either. And Saysa… Saysa was obviously not human. He didn't know what she was, but he doubted that Voldemort would have let her into his council.

…Unless she was so dangerous that even he, nonhuman-hating fool that he was, was forced to acknowledge her usefulness.

The hairs on his neck, arms, everywhere but his head, stood at attention, forced there by a sudden eruption of goose bumps. What if they _weren't_ reformed? He and Dudley could be hostages for Mark. Tyr and Remus… they weren't on Voldemort's side, he would trust them with his life, but many other werewolves followed the Dark Lord. If Pollux was using Tyr and Remus to find a way for werewolves to transform outside the full moon, Voldemort's pack would become even more deadly.

Oh, _Merlin,_ they really were Death Eaters. No wonder the dementors had let Pollux take him from Azkaban- they were on the same side! Oh Merlin, sweet Morgana, he had to get out, had to get Dudley and Moony and Tyr and _run-_

-and then Pollux walked into the library.

Padfoot's heart skipped several beats. Oh crap. He'd opened the Black Library to a group of probably-not-reformed Death Eaters.

His parents would be so proud.

Sirius Black had always been an impulsive man: he'd run away from home as a teenager, almost fed a fellow classmate to a werewolf, and broken into the home of a man who hated his guts. That was why, instead of doing the sensible thing and lulling Pollux into a false sense of security, he grabbed his wand and started firing curses willy-nilly.

The Death Eater's face twisted in shock. "Sirius, have you lost your bloody _mind?_"

"EAT FURNITURE, DEATH EATER!" Not his best comeback, but he was still reeling from his obvious (though slightly erroneous) conclusion.

Pollux was so surprised by the _completely_ reasonable accusation that he forgot to dodge the armchair Sirius had flung at him. It slammed into his frozen form, crushing him against the wall.

"_Stupe-" _

"_Protego!" _

"_-fy!" _

The Stunner bounced, ricocheting towards its caster. Sirius dodged. The chair holding Pollux captive dissolved into matchsticks.

Now Pollux was on the offensive, blasting silent spells towards his foe with the speed and power of Voldemort himself. Sirius laughed. "Can't hit me!"

The other man smiled, a feral bearing of teeth. "I wasn't aiming for you."

"Wh-" The Animagus's question died before its proper birth, strangled by the Transfigured chairs that had crept up on him from behind and were now pinning his limbs- most importantly, his wand arm- to his body. A Disarming spell hit him half a second later. His wand went flying.

Padfoot shifted to his canine form, but the chairs held him tight. What a death, commented the sarcastic part of his brain. Held captive by your own furniture as a Death Eater slits your throat.

"Care to explain why you think I'm a Death Eater?" Pollux's voice was filled to the brim with barely contained anger. No doubt he was put out about being discovered.

It would take too long to explain his fractured reasoning, so Sirius spat out, "You lied about the curse. You're using the werewolves to enhance Greyback's pack. Dudley and I are bait for Mark for when your master returns."

Something cold and deadly flickered in Pollux's eyes. "I do _not,_" he growled, "serve Voldemort. I never have, and I never will. And why in the name of Merlin would I be destroying his Horcruxes if I'm one of his ridiculously named flunkies?"

Sirius stopped struggling. In his mental gallop, he'd forgotten about that little detail.

Pollux heaved a sigh. With a wave of his wand, the furniture holding Sirius fell, inanimate once again. He shoved that same wand into Padfoot's hand. "There. I'm unarmed. Would a Death Eater do that?"

"…Oops?" A pause. "Are you a reformed Death Eater like Regulus was?"

"No! Why are you so hung up on Death Eaters?"

"Because you lied."

"And every liar follows some deranged Dark Lord wannabe, is that it?"

He didn't deny the charge. "You said he cursed you as a baby, and that's where your mysterious condition comes from. You're too old. If he'd really cursed you as a baby, he would have done it years before going public."

Pollux nodded.

Sirius pressed on. "You know all sorts of Dark magic. You got past the dementors. The dementors were _afraid_ of you. Your condition is so incredibly Dark that you have to read that foul tome to find a cure."

He was still nodding. Everything Sirius said was true.

"I want to know why. No, I _need_ to know why. You saved me and Dudley, yes, but I still know nothing about you. If you want my help taking Dumbledore and Voldemort down, I need to know who, what, where, when, why, and how."

Pollux was still, very still. The silence stretched on for half an eternity before the Parselmouth heaved a sigh. Sirius said nothing. He knew he'd won.

"I need to talk with the others." His voice left no room for negotiation. "Ours is a long, complicated tale, and many of the secrets aren't mine. Saysa especially depends on secrecy for survival; she has for longer than we've been alive. However, as a show of trust…." He paused, hesitated. The muscles in his neck tensed, veins thick and prominent. "I'm a Horcrux."

"I'm sorry?" Sirius must have misheard. "Could you say that again?"

"I'm Voldemort's last Horcrux." His voice was strained, angry, almost a growl. "He's made so many of the bloody things that his soul has become unstable. When he killed my family, a piece of his soul flew off and attached itself to me. I didn't know what had happened, of course; I didn't have a name for my connection to him until January, when another Horcrux possessed Lucius Malfoy. We're trying to find a way to kill the blasted thing without killing me, but so far we haven't had much luck. Any suggestions?"

Part of Sirius wondered if he was joking, but the rest of him knew that Pollux Ophion Riddle was dead serious. No one in his right mind would joke about having a piece of Voldemort's soul on- or rather, in- his person. "No. I-" He froze, not knowing what else to say. The shock of Pollux having a Horcrux in one's skull overrode his curiosity. If the others' secrets were half that bad, he probably didn't want to know.

But he had to. He'd spoken the truth when he'd said that he couldn't follow Pollux without more information- namely, a set of goals and motivations.

"I'll go meet with the others," Pollux promised. "You get Remus and Tyr."

"What about Dudley and Harry?"

The other wizard smiled dryly. "Harry is a Hogwarts student; he doesn't get out of school for another month. As for Dudley, you're his guardian. After you've heard what we have to say, we can decide how much to tell him. I can hardly say he's too young to know."

What in Merlin's name did that mean? "What's that mean?"

The Parselmouth shrugged. "Meet us in the first cottage you constructed. It should be large enough. I'll try to hurry, but I don't know how long our discussion will take. Be prepared to wait awhile."

"I will. And, Pollux?"

"Yes?"

"Sorry for attacking you, pinning you against the wall with an ancient armchair, telling you to eat furniture, and accusing you of being a Death Eater."

The Parselmouth chuckled. "Apology accepted, Padfoot. In all honesty, I probably shouldn't blame you for getting suspicious. We've put off our explanations for far too long."

Sirius nodded. That they had.

* * *

><p>Ah, Sirius. You make me laugh. I like writing you.<p>

The revelation thing was inspired by a review from 782 pointing out that "Pollux" had indeed made such a slip-up. It was a plot hole on my part, but I decided to go with it. Why not? I was planning on letting the ignorant ones know more sooner or later. This just means it's sooner. By the way, 782, I'm dedicating this chapter and the next to you, since your comments inspired it. No, the dementor-killing was not inspired by Wolfbrothers in WoT. I can't even remember where it came from any more.

-Antares


	7. Belief and Disbelief

_Do you think I am_

_Easier to be played on than a pipe? –Hamlet _3.2.369-370

"Congratulations, Harry. You've obviously lost your mind."

"I know, I know," the Parselmouth growled. "You don't have to keep reminding me."

"Sirius has a point," Neville volunteered. He shrank under the combined forces of Blaise and Daphne's glares but pressed on. "They need more information. It's not even a matter of trust; it's a matter of sense."

"Dumbledore keeps things to himself," Hermione mused, pressing a finger to her lips. Her tone was neutral; whether she approved or not, no one could tell.

"Dumbledore is a genius," Daphne pointed out. "I don't approve of his goals, but his strategies are unparalleled. In that, at least, we should follow his example."

"But he does it for a different reason." Hermione was thinking out loud, not really intending to sway the conversation one way or another but letting the others see how she formed her own conclusion. "If people knew what his real goals were and what he really was, no one would follow him except perhaps the Death Eaters. Maybe they wouldn't- we still don't know where he stands on the blood purity issue, just that he's a killer and a liar."

"But we do know where he stands," Blaise growled. "He made all those anti-Muggle-born laws, remember? Not to mention allowing all the other anti-creature legislation."

The Ravenclaw nodded. "But is that due to his own beliefs or his desire to create an underclass, any underclass, that could keep him in power? What I'm saying is that he _needs_ secrecy. Without it, people will abandon him in hordes like Moony and Padfoot did. The question we should be asking ourselves is do we _need_ secrecy as well? Because if we don't, there's really no reason to keep this from them."

She had a point, a very valid point. The others fell silent, thinking.

"We can't tell them that Harry and Neville aren't even teenagers yet," Daphne pointed out. "Especially since Remus is Harry's legal guardian."

"I never said we should," Hermione sighed, "but I see no reason to not tell them about the prophecies. What do you think, Saysa?"

The basilisk had been silent throughout their entire conversation, head tilted to the side, golden eyes closed. "Sirius and Tyr can hardly tell anyone our secrets," she murmured, "and I doubt that Remus would betray them." She nodded. "We should tell them the prophecies. Sirius is correct; they can become much more helpful if they know our motivations."

"Or will they?" wondered Blaise. "If they don't believe us, they'll think we're all barmy."

"We should show them in the Chamber," muttered Harry. "Show them the actual books and Saysa's true form."

Daphne folded her arms. "And what of our other secrets?"

"We've already let slip that Blaise is a Seer," Neville observed. "Our only other secret is how Harry has Voldemort's memories because of the Horcrux. And our ages, of course, but we all know we're not telling them about that."

"Nor will we tell them that I am a weather witch," Daphne proclaimed.

The three boys erupted into an uproar. Weather witches were incredibly rare; the last one had died over a hundred years ago. Despite their scarcity, though, weather witches were incredibly powerful, capable of summoning hurricanes in Alaska or bringing rain to the driest desert… or sending a bolt of lightning to destroy Lucius Malfoy's fireplace.

Only Saysa, who grew up in a time when weather witches were slightly more common, and Hermione, who had been researching that particular branch of magic for months, sat still not at all surprised. "Congratulations," the serpent-woman smiled. "Have you found a tutor yet?"

"There aren't any," Daphne explained dryly, enjoying her revenge against all the bombshells Harry and his other friends had dropped back in January, "which is doubtless why the boys are acting like fish out of water." She forced the amusement to the back of her mind. She would have time to gloat later; for now, she had more important business to attend to. "But we will not tell them. My abilities should remain as secret as our true ages."

"But what if they know something about weather magic?" worried Hermione.

The Slytherin girl frowned, thought. "We have access to the Black Library," she commented eventually, "and you have found some very good leads for my summer reading. If I cannot find anything before September, I will consider telling them."

"So we're agreed, then?" Harry asked, dragging them back on topic. "We'll tell them about the prophecies and the Horcrux memories?"

"You're telling them about the memories?" Neville parroted. "Harry, are you sure?"

The younger boy scowled. "I'd prefer not to, but there's really no other way to explain our Dark knowledge."

"You're sure?"

A muscle jumped in his jaw. "I'm sure, Nev."

It was a grim sextet that Portkeyed to Founder's Isle. One Animagus, two werewolves, and four house-elves waited for them in Tyr's cottage. Kreacher and Malfoy's old servants rose when Saysa entered. Harry raised a brow. House-elves hadn't sent any representatives to the Council of the Woods, but Dobby had called him "Master Speaker" several times. It might just be because he could talk to snakes and hadn't exactly hidden that fact, but Blaise had told the little elf that he was the Smoking Mirror, and the brownie seemed to have understood….

But then, it probably didn't matter that house-elves hadn't attended. Werewolves had, and look at how clueless Tyr and Remus were. Somewhere down the line, lycanthropes had lost all information about the Treaty of the Wood.

Tyr folded his arms. "How much are you going to tell us?"

Blunt and demanding, as always. Well, there was a reason he was alpha of the good werewolves. Harry lifted his head. "Has Sirius told you what I am?"

The lycanthrope shook his head. Padfoot shrugged apologetically and mumbled something about not knowing how to explain it.

Harry sighed. "In all honesty, I didn't expect you to." Inhale, exhale. Stay calm.

They all knew about Horcruxes, so he bit the bullet and announced, "Years ago, I was attacked by the so-called 'Lord Voldemort.' The aftermath of the attack turned me into a Horcrux. It remained embedded in my mind like a sleeper agent until about two years ago, when a shift in my consciousness broke it loose."

"From your tone, that doesn't mean it's gone," Tyr observed.

The Parselmouth smiled bitterly. "You're right. When the Horcrux shifted, it gave me all Voldemort's memories and knowledge."

The werewolves stiffened. Sirius hissed. The house-elves trembled like autumn leaves, Kreacher especially.

Harry pressed on. "I've been using this knowledge to track down the other Horcruxes and to try and find a cure for mine. We've destroyed four so far, but two remain: the one in my head and the one which possessed Lucius Malfoy and caused him to kidnap those girls last year."

"But what if he's made more since then?" Remus looked sick.

Now things got tricky. Harry knew that Voldemort hadn't, because he had become a disembodied spirit after the attack at the Potters'. However, he couldn't tell them that because they might put the pieces together and discover their true identities and ages. Merlin only knew what would happen if that got out, so he had to tread carefully. "The attack took place very near the end of the war. He wanted to make a sixth with the Potter twins' deaths, and he's been out-of-body since then. Unless he regains a body, he has no Horcruxes that I don't know about."

"And what if there are other people in your situation?" demanded Tyr. "Other survivors with bits of the Dark Lord's soul? There could be dozens, hundreds of people keeping him alive."

The color drained from Remus's face. "Sweet Merlin," he breathed, _"Harry." _He jerked to his feet. "I need to get to Hogwarts. Harry and Mark might be infected."

Blaise grabbed him before he could get anywhere. "Calm down. Pollux is the only one with a soul fragment. The other survivors are fine."

The werewolf's eyes were wild. "How would you know? Pollux admitted that he doesn't know what happened at Lily and James's house that night. No one does. All anyone knows is that some heavy-duty magic took place there. If there was enough power to kill Voldemort, there might have been enough to make two new Horcruxes."

"If either boy has a Horcrux, it would be the Boy-Who-Lived," Daphne commented, folding her hands together. "Pallas, can you get close enough to Mark Potter to inspect him with the serpent sight?"

"With the what?" echoed Sirius.

The Slytherin girl waved negligently, momentarily forgetting that Hermione shouldn't dabble any more in the serpent sight until they knew more about it. "A spell she invented. If Mark Potter is a Horcrux, Pallas will know."

It was a brilliant example of Greengrass training: everything she said would hold up under Veritaserum, but it led those not in the know to an erroneous conclusion. Hermione was smiling as she announced that yes, she could check.

Harry, though, was not smiling. He'd never thought that his brother might be equally affected. What if Mark _was_ a Horcrux? Bad enough that he, Harry, was tainted; if a piece of that madman's fractured soul was feeding off his twin….

"**Your brother is fine." **Saysa's words were quiet, so soft that non-Parseltongues wouldn't even have heard her hissing. **"The Sorting Hat doubtless knew what you were on the day it awakened his memories. I've no doubt that it checked Mark over as well. You spoke with it just last year, and it said nothing about your brother." **

"**It didn't say I was a Horcrux, either," **the wizard muttered back.

Saysa bowed her head slightly, acknowledging his point. **"Still, I doubt that he has been contaminated. Either way, Hermione will soon know for certain. Until then, there is nothing you can do." **

Little as he liked it, the basilisk was right. He couldn't do anything until he knew if Mark was a Horcrux. Even then, he admitted bitterly, he couldn't help. He couldn't destroy the soul fragment in his own head; how then could he save Mark?

He returned his attention to the conversation. Remus had apparently forced Hermione to swear that she would inspect the younger twin and be completely truthful about his condition. The witch was nodding away, probably quite grateful that she wasn't obligated to do the same with Harry.

The second she was done, Remus turned to his disguised godson. "Sorry," he mumbled, "it's just that I'm worried about them, Harry especially." He hesitated, and then added, "And I am truly sorry for what you've had to endure."

It was still a novelty, having an adult concerned for his welfare. Harry swallowed the lump in his throat. "Thank you, Remus."

"My condolences as well," Sirius said, "and my apologies for not giving them earlier." He blushed. "I was in shock."

Tyr nodded. "And mine. I don't know much about Horcruxes, but they can't be pleasant to live with."

"Dobby is also being very sorry," the house-elf squeaked. His fellow elves shot him an admonishing glare. Their kind weren't supposed to speak at human meetings. Of course, they weren't supposed to be invited as anything but servants, either, and they'd already breached that little bit of protocol, so he probably felt that another toe out line couldn't hurt.

"Thank you all." It took every ounce of control to keep his voice steady. He was _not_ going to cry. He _refused_ to cry. So what if they had accepted him unconditionally instead of cringing away, faces dark with loathing? Even Dobby, shy nervous Dobby, was offering support and acceptance. "However, my unpleasant problem isn't why we are fighting against Dumbledore. Saysa, will you explain?"

The serpent-woman nodded. "You know, of course, that I am not human." She fixed her golden gaze on the four house-elves, most of who were still glaring at Dobby. "Do you know who I am?"

They cringed back, not used to the attention of so many humans and almost-humans. Finally Flapsy squeaked, "You is being the Lady of the Chamber. You is the Guardian."

She nodded, every inch the Queen of Serpents despite her changed form. "What else do you know about me?" she continued gently.

But Flapsy had used up all her nerve. Quaking, she flinched back. Her mouth opened several times, but nothing came out but air.

"Don't answer if you don't want to," the serpent-woman ordered.

"Flapsy is sorry, Great Lady." Tears filled her oversized eyes. "Flapsy has only heard stories. Flapsy's mummy's stories say that you was at the Treaty of the Wood, and that you was born to guard the hope of the world."

"Your mother was right." Saysa smiled. "I was at the signing of the Treaty, but I do not exactly guard the hope of the world. I simply guard the knowledge of it, the prophecies that guide our actions. Many races know this, and they too have sworn to watch and wait."

"Can you say that again in English?" Sirius asked.

She laughed softly. "Did I lapse into Gaelic without realizing it? Very well, Sirius, I will attempt to explain this in ways you can understand."

She started out with the prophecies themselves, with the Spider and Viper and Lightning Speaker. She placed special emphasis on the cycle relating to lycanthropy and the chalice, and to the few mentions of the Dog. Even Dudley was mentioned once or twice, she told them.

Tyr's face was hard. "You believe that Albus Dumbledore is the fulfillment of some evil prophecy of doom?" He did not sound convinced.

Saysa's lips curled. "Do not worry, Master Ulfhednar. You will soon see the proof you require." She turned to the prophesied five. "We should leave now."

"Where to?" demanded Remus. It was obvious to all involved that he'd only been listening with half an ear. The poor werewolf was worried to death about his godson.

An ugly thought occurred to Tyr. His eyes narrowed to gray slits. "If you've been getting all this information from prophecies, you have no idea what the cure looks like. You only _think_ that it's a silver goblet."

Blaise frowned. "No. I saw the chalice in my dream. Our description is accurate."

"Not unless your dream is accurate," the werewolf growled. "If you've been hearing about some silver cup that's supposed to cure lycanthropy, what do you _think _you're going to dream about? A silver cup that's supposed to cure lycanthropy."

The Seer's jaw tightened. "Are you suggesting that predictions and visions are all fake?"

Neville butted in, nervous about interrupting but more nervous about a fight breaking out. "Lots of wizards are skeptical about Divination, Apollo. It's a famously… difficult branch of magic. Master Ulfhednar, could you wait until you've seen our proof before making judgment? Thank you."

For a long moment those fierce gray eyes bored into his. Sweat beaded on the Gryffindor's brow. He fought back a gulp- Tyr hadn't become the alpha of Great Britain without perfecting his glare of intimidation. Then he turned to Saysa. "Show us."

She inclined her head. "Very well. Will you come with us to my home?"

"If that's where the 'proof' is, then yes."

The humans and basilisk arrived in the Chamber of Secrets a few seconds later. Kreacher followed, using his link to Sirius to find his way. The other house-elves came after him.

Those who hadn't seen the Chamber before gazed around in awe. It was not delicate or elegant; some would call its serpent-carved carved pillars simplistic or crude. Those twining snakes with their glittering emerald eyes, the small shoot of Angel's Net, and the brilliant golden staircase were the only adornments in sight. Yet despite the lack of subtleties, the room was filled with the majesty, wisdom, and strength that only appeared in the most ancient and powerful shrines.

"_This_ is your home?" Remus breathed, taking in the jeweled carvings and narrow descent. He wasn't surprised by its strange appearance. Somehow, this strange, secret place fit Saysa like a glove. It was as much a part of her as her green garments.

"It is indeed. The Chamber of Secrets has been my home for the past one thousand and seventeen years."

Before the werewolf could protest her ridiculous statement- he knew that she wasn't human, but what manner of being could survive that long and still remain young, not to mention the part about this being Slytherin's legendary creation- when she closed her eyes and _melted. _Bones blurred, rearranged, expanded. Her skin turned green- or perhaps her green clothing swallowed her skin- and became rough, dividing into scales. Her arms shrunk, vanishing into her thickening sides. Her legs fused together into a powerful tail. Her hair slithered back into her head, leaving a bald serpentine scalp.

Remus gawked. Breath whooshed from his lungs. He tried to speak, but words wouldn't form. He tried to breathe, but his diaphragm refused to cooperate.

Sirius jerked back, tripping over Alexander. The two men tumbled to the floor. Tyr crouched to help them up, his eyes never leaving Saysa's new, monstrous visage.

No, not monstrous: powerful, even beautiful in an alien way.

"What the _bloody-"_ choked Sirius. "Animagi can't become magical creatures. I would know!"

"Saysa isn't an Animagus," Pallas explained, smiling fondly at the immense serpent. "She is a basilisk, hatched from an egg that was incubated by a toad. Salazar Slytherin and the other Founders, Seers all, arranged her birth so that she might guard the prophecies of the Lightning Speaker and guide him when he came." Her lips curled in a slightly wicked smile. "Believe us now, Master Ulfhednar?"

He did not. "Alright, now the prophecies were given by a group of schoolmasters to a giant snake over a thousand years ago. Should I believe you?"

"…It would certainly make things a great deal easier if you did."

Pollux waved his wand at the staircase. Books soared through the air into his waiting hands. "The prophecies," he explained unnecessarily. "Think about it, Tyr. Why would we lie? We have no reason to."

The alpha's brow furrowed. His mind worked swiftly, trying to divine some kind of motivation. He knew they were all quite sane (though some would say otherwise, given their goals) and that they needed _some _explanation as to why and how Saysa had pulled off her impossible transformation, but couldn't find any less improbable scenarios. That was saying something, but it was far too true. Without Saysa's change, he might have believed that they had Muggle or creature friends who were disadvantaged by the Spider's schemes. Yet why would a shape-shifting snake emerge from its ancient hiding place just for that?

Besides, as Pollux had said, they had no reason to make up this wild tale, one they knew was improbable and potentially a sign of madness. And what harm could come of giving them the benefit of the doubt? He still didn't entirely believe them, but he had to admit that it made sense- in a strange, convoluted way.

The werewolf shrugged. "I'll reserve judgment."

Saysa flowed back into her human form. "Very well then, Master Ulfhednar. Soon you will have all the proof you need and more."


	8. The Goblins' Pensieve

This chapter contains several references to chapter 1 of _Behind and Between. _If you haven't read that, I recommend doing so. Also, I have a poll on my profile regarding Neville's Animagus form. Please vote or PM me with another suggestion. Thanks.

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><p><em>And it must follow, as the night the day, <em>

_thou canst not then be false to any man. Hamlet _1.3.79-80

Back in February, the goblins had fulfilled their promise to the Lady of the Chamber to meet with the Lightning Speaker. Being goblins, though, they had used the opportunity to bargain for Saysa's memories and venom, two priceless commodities that could benefit their race immensely. In return, the Speaker and his comrades had received tutoring in Mermish and Gobblededook (or rather, they would, once they forced the goblins to uphold that part of the deal. It hadn't happened yet. At this rate, they wouldn't receive the promised teacher until next January) and access to the goblins' illegal Pensieve.

Saysa had been to the bank several times to try and acquire the tutor, to donate poison and memory, and to speak with Director Ragnok. She had never before asked for the Pensieve, but now that Sisith was back from the Ministry, they needed its powers.

The serpent-woman had her own Portkey to the goblins' secret chambers, but it was enchanted to carry only one person. That wouldn't have stopped her, had she wished to visit them alone, but Hermione and Daphne were coming with her. The goblins had been ignoring the prophesied five's existence, their importance, and Saysa was determined to remind them that, Lady or not, she was but an agent for these five human youths.

Besides, it would hopefully keep them off-balance enough to _make_ them give her the Pensieve. They had been so reticent about the tutor that she no longer trusted them. And so, her eyes glamored green and her hair brown as bark, she and her two companions walked into Gringotts Bank.

It was a Saturday, so they had to wait in line a few minutes before being assisted. The goblin, a bored-looking middle-aged woman, scowled at them, "Name and business," she snapped.

"Pallas Dhar, Bianca Frost, and Lady Saysa of the Chamber," Daphne said coolly. The goblin's eyes bulged. "We need to borrow your Pensieve."

Their teller nodded, trying not to gape but failing miserably. It wasn't every day that three women out of legend walk up to you in the middle of your shift. "Right away. I'll, er, escort you to a waiting room." She walked off, glanced behind to see if they were following, and collided with a pillar. The room's other occupants chortled. Red-faced to the tips of her pointed ears, the goblin continued her march. She fled as soon as her clients had settled themselves.

Hermione pulled out her wand to de-glamor the serpent-woman. Saysa sighed with relief. "Do those spells still hurt your eyes?" the Ravenclaw asked sympathetically.

Her friend nodded. "The glamor is no longer quite so unpleasant, but it will be a long time before I grow accustomed to it."

Goblins were a proud, haughty people, so it was several minutes before Ragnok deigned to visit his most important clients. He wanted them to know exactly who was in charge- or at least, exactly whom _he _thought was in charge.

"You wish for Pensieve, my Lady?" he asked, ignoring the two humans.

Saysa nodded. "We believe we have found the location of the cure for lycanthropy," she explained.

The director froze. Very slowly, he straightened his spectacles.

Saysa took that as permission to continue. "Our agent, Tyr Ulfhednar, tracked the Chalice of the Moon to the Department of Mysteries. Four days ago, the Lightning Speaker sent a serpent to find its exact location within the Ministry. The serpent returned today, and he desires to show us what he has discovered."

Ragnok nodded. His shoulders relaxed fractionally. With a start, Hermione realized that he didn't _want_ them to find the cure- not if it meant that the goblins had to fulfill their promise and assist the Speaker. _Well,_ she thought, gritting her teeth, _it's your own fault you promised that, isn't it. You'll just have to deal with the consequences. Besides, how else could we change the world? Nothing comes of nothing, and you can hardly expect to reap these benefits without putting in an effort. _

"We did promise you access to our Pensieve," the goblin acknowledged. "However, I will come along with you. I desire to see this Chalice as well."

The hairs on Hermione's neck stiffened. Her muscles tightened. He wouldn't- _couldn't_- sabotage them, could he?

Satisfaction glittered in Saysa's eyes. Hermione wished she could speak Parseltongue in addition to merely understanding it. She wanted to warn the serpent-woman against Ragnok, to make her see what she, Hermione, had seen.

"Axshaft, go fetch the Pensieve," the goblin ordered. One of the guards trotted off obediently. Hermione remembered him; he had been there during her first meeting with the goblins.

While the guard was off on his mission, Saysa explained the circumstances in more detail. She told the stone-faced goblin not to worry about Sirius Black or Tyr Ulfhednar's statuses as criminals, promising that both were innocent allies. She did, however, mention that the latter was a bit skeptical about the prophecies.

That was when Hermione understood. Saysa knew that Ragnok didn't want to follow the Speaker and his companions- of course she did; that much was obvious- but she didn't believe their self-invited guest could sabotage them. He would hardly destroy his own Pensieve, and better yet, his very presence would help convince Tyr that they weren't all barmy. Why would goblins, famously independent and stubborn as rocks, go along with such a wild tale of basilisks and prophecies unless it was true?

Sometimes, she really thought she should have gone into her many-times-great-grandfather's House. Then she remembered that Slytherins did this every day and decided that Ravenclaw was perfectly fine, thank you very much.

When Axshaft returned with the bowl of silvery liquid, his master had been brought up to speed. He accepted Saysa's Portkey (Harry had loaned her his ouroboros ring and gone to the island with Neville) and transported away, leaving the basilisk behind. Her lips thinned, but she said nothing as Hermione wordlessly held out her ivory key.

The other humans and werewolves were waiting in Tyr's cottage. Dudley (who had been told everything by Sirius and used Pollux's Horcrux status as further proof that he was still not to be trusted) stared at the first goblin he'd seen in his life; Ragnok watched him with blank, beady eyes. What he thought of the Muggle child no one could tell.

Tyr, too, was observing the newcomer, but his expression was more closed than Ragnok's. Hermione could practically hear his thoughts churning: if the head of Gringotts, the most important goblin in Britain, believes in this lunacy, does that mean it's true? He turned away, face lined and pensive.

"'Lo, Pallas, Bianca, Saysa." Blaise refused to even glance at the goblin, ignoring him as steadfastly as he had ignored the rest of the humans. "We decided to show you my dreams. Perhaps you can see something I missed."

"Dreams?" Ragnok growled. "I am on a busy schedule, Peverell. I have no time to watch your dreams."

The Seer ignored him and dumped a silvery memory into the rune-inscribed bowl. The liquid thought swirled enchantingly, making Hermione want to dunk her head in and never take it out.

"Ladies first," the Smoking Mirror joked, gesturing at the bowl. Saysa smiled softly, dipped her hand into the flowing fluid.

Hermione smiled at the infuriated Ragnok. "You did say that we could access the Pensieve," the witch informed him. "You didn't say we could only use it for viewing Sisith's memories." She ducked into the bowl before he could retort.

Everyone else followed. Even Dudley, who had been raised to hate magic; Even Ragnok, who was still seething at being ignored, even Tyr, who was skeptical of the dreams' worth.

Hermione would later learn that Harry had already seen this dream, which he'd gone ahead to make sure no Blaise-shaped phantom lurked in the shadows to reveal Apollo Peverell's true identity. He hadn't found one. In the dreams, the young Slytherin had been bodiless. No image of Blaise stood in the clearing to watch the werewolves' interactions.

The young Seer had wisely chosen to show his dreams out of order. He wanted to show them the Chalice in action before going back to the first vision, which didn't make a great deal of sense without the context of the second.

Hermione squinted at the delicate silver cup, trying to make out as much detail as she could, shadows on starlight, night's darkness and night's queen in the same vessel. She blinked, squinted harder. There were shapes around the cup's rim. They were… moons. Starting with a black circle that rose ever-so-slightly out of the cup and growing larger, waxing until only a sliver of darkness remained. She stepped to the left, and the raised white circle of the full moon appeared.

Then the dream was over, and they were forced out of Blaise's memory. "Did anyone see any details on the Chalice?" he asked without aplomb.

Tyr nodded. Remus described the tiny lunar phases along the rim.

Ragnok scowled. "Now that that is over, I would like to see if your pet has discovered this moon-marked goblet."

Sisith bristled at being called a pet. He and Harry indulged in a short argument about whether the snobbish goblin should be allowed into the snake's memory or not. Harry won by pointing out that it was Ragnok's Pensieve and that Sisith could always "accidentally" bite him later.

The snake's memory looked almost like a silvery clone, a white copy of himself. It was longer than Blaise's dream, the summary of four days instead of a few minutes.

The first two or three minutes were fragmented. Sisith would slither into a room, then the memory would blur, skipping over the fruitless time he'd spent in that area. When the blur faded, he moved into the next chamber and began the process again.

Three rooms in, two lefts, one room ahead and a turn to the right; Hermione silently repeated the directions, pounding them into her brain until it was as firmly fixed in her memory as her own name. Straight, straight, straight, left, left, straight, right. She mouthed the words, determined to get the order right.

Like the others, this chamber was stacked haphazardly with random items. Even a precursory glance revealed two moldy hats, a trio of pawns, and a Viking ship in a bottle. Everything was covered in thick sheets of dust, muting colors, obscuring details, clogging the air.

"**I hate dust," **groused Sisith-in-the-memory. Hermione jumped, eyes widening. She'd _understood _that without having to think of a translation. **"These stupid humans need a better cleaning service." **

Remus cleared his throat. "Um… was I the only one who understood that?"

"You understood that?" Harry echoed, surprised.

"**Can you understand me now?" **asked real-Sisith. The werewolf nodded, eyes bulging.

"It makes sense, I suppose," Hermione commented. "Sisith obviously understands Parseltongue, and we're in his memory. Of course we understand everything he does."

"**Yes!"** the real serpent cackled. **"Finally I can say what I want without **_**him **_**translating."** He nodded at Pollux, who raised a brow.

"Your insults can wait. Your memory-self seems to have found something important."

"**Spoilsport." **But he obviously agreed, for he didn't say another word.

Sisith-in-the-memory had knocked one of the antique hats to the floor. Its perch, protected from centuries of dust by the tattered headwear, glinted silver in the room's dim light. The memory-snake grinned. **"Bingo." **

The cup was thicker than its name suggested, almost a goblet instead of a chalice. Its base was covered in dark spots and irregular texturing, a petite map of the moon's bright side. Its stem was formed of two back-to-back crescents, each of which was carved with leaves and flowers so tiny and shallow they were almost invisible. The bowl flared out at the bottom, sloping gently for about an inch before inclining steeply. The rim was thicker than the rest of the bowl, inscribed with the phases of the moon in obsidian and silver.

Blaise smirked triumphantly. It was the cup they'd seen in his dreams, untarnished by the march of years, proof of his visionary powers that not even Tyr could deny.

The humans crowded around it, jostling and jockeying for a better position. Hermione's gaze gravitated towards the inside of the bowl. A dark wolf's paw flared out over the area where the stem met the bowl.

The serpent sight flared again, and she fought back a shriek. White light scalded her eyes. Tendrils crawled from the paw print in its center, reaching into Tyr and Remus's cores. Dark wolf-shapes flitted around their silhouettes, straining and grasping at the moonlight. The light shone on them, through them, sparking across the wolf-shapes and forming tiny filaments between beast and man. The Ravenclaw squinted. Unlike Padfoot, whose Animagus form was clearly connected to his human self, the humans and wolves were clearly separate entities. The Chalice… all it did was form bonds between them, too weak to last, too thin to heal.

That was the problem, she realized: Werewolves were two separate entities in one body, an early form of the Animagus transformation that created animal spirits along with animal forms. The Chalice had been created to merge the two halves together.

But there were advantages to having two spirits. That _had _to be connected to their enmity with dementors. Perhaps the simpler wolf minds provided a barrier between the human soul and the soul-eating monsters? Something similar had occurred with Sirius; though, since he lacked a true canine spirit, the effects were diminished.

There were flaws in Hermione's theory, of course. The two-spirits hypothesis didn't explain why werewolves were so vicious or why their transformation was triggered by the moon. It didn't rationalize their method of 'reproduction.' It left out so many details, but she knew on a visceral level that it was true.

Then she blinked, and the world dulled to normal sight.

"Saysa," she whispered, "_look_ at it."

She did. Golden eyes widened as similar thoughts and theories crossed their owner's mind.

Neville had gravitated towards the carvings on the crescent stem. "Hemp," he observed, fingering a miniscule leaf. "Aconite, parosela, adders tongue, boneset…."

The world tilted. Hermione was flung onto her back, head snapping against the ground. Dudley's knee collided with her stomach, knocking the air from her lungs. They were back in the real world, the world where memories were made.

"Guess you really are a Seer," Tyr acknowledged, nodding towards the smug Blaise.

"Guess I really am," the Slytherin replied flippantly.

"Can you obtain this cup by the deadline?" demanded Ragnok, folding his long fingers together.

"Deadline?" repeated Tyr, eyebrow arching dangerously.

"What deadline?" Bianca asked. "You and your colleagues promised to join forces with us when we succeed in curing lycanthropy, the process of which we had already begun during our meeting. Apollo _estimated_ we would have succeeded by the end of August, six months after our council. There is no _deadline,_ for we undertook this task of our own accord before contacting any representatives of goblinkind." She folded her fingers together, imitating the director. "We have a Pensieve here if you wish to lessen your confusion."

Ragnok's knuckles tightened. His joints turned white. He opened his mouth to answer, but Tyr beat him to it. "I'd _love_ to."

And so they viewed yet another memory, this one from Harry. Tyr watched expressionlessly as the prophesied five and their serpent companion spoke with Ragnok, Estella of the veela, and Baffur of the dwarves. He took everything in, dissected every word.

When the memory expelled them, he stated, "That was in February."

"Correct," Bianca confirmed. The goblin nodded grudgingly.

He nodded, turned to Ragnok. "Pollux contacted me about the cure in December, so you can quit trying to turn me against him. I _will_ find this cure. I _will_ use it. _You_ will just have to keep your word and deal with the consequences."

"And do not even think of turning Master Ulfhednar or Sirius in." Saysa's voice was quiet, deadly. "Not unless you wish to relinquish all the honor of goblinkind. The Treaty of the Wood states that the leaders of the races will be honored equally. He is the alpha of Britain; he deserves as much respect as you."

More_ respect, if you ask me,_ Hermione thought.

Ragnok flushed scarlet. "I will inform my people of your progress." He hesitated. In a snarl that implied he would rather eat broken glass, he asked, "And I shall also tell the dwarves and veela."

He vanished. The Pensieve vanished with him.

Blaise scowled. "He could have let us get our memories out of that."

Sisith whined something about wanting to insult the goblin when everyone could understand Parseltongue. Harry rolled his eyes.

"Good riddance that he's gone," Tyr growled, "but he could have left the Pensieve. There's one more memory I wanted to see."

"I've told you all about my other dream," Blaise reminded him. "The chalice doesn't show up there, so it's not so important."

"Not yours," the alpha replied. He pointed at Saysa. "Hers."

She nodded, very slowly. "Are you still not convinced, Master Ulfhednar? Ragnok acknowledges my identity, as did the dwarf and veela leaders in Pollux's recollection."

The werewolf shrugged. "They also call Pallas Dhar the Heiress of Salazar Slytherin."

"Is there any reason she should not be?"

"I'm more than halfway convinced of both her identity and your claims," he admitted, "but I want to see at least one of these prophecies being made."

"Then it shall be done," she assured him. "When?"

Remus waved awkwardly. "May I make a suggestion?" Nods all around. "Maybe this viewing could wait until we've acquired the Chalice of the Moon? That way other skeptical werewolves could see evidence- that is, if you were planning on telling them about these prophecies."

"Were we?" wondered Hermione.

"I think we should," Neville mumbled. "I think… if we didn't tell them about the prophecies but still expected them to fight for us, we would be no better than Dumbledore."

"The other races know about this," Saysa agreed. "Werewolves should as well."

"But I'd prefer not telling them about my situation," Harry interjected. His jaw was set in a way Hermione recognized; he wouldn't be backing down on this.

"We have quite a while to think about it," Daphne reminded them. "The chalice is still held within the Department of Mysteries. Until we bring it to the… CC, as you call it, and use it to cure the residents, they will think us mad no matter what evidence we offer. Even if Master Ulfhednar and Remus vouched for us, we would still be seen as charlatans or lunatics."

"That might even make it worse," Remus confessed. "Tyr isn't very popular right now for running off with no warning. The Aurors have gotten worse since then, and they blame him. As for me… they say I've been 'domesticated,' that I'm a sympathizer. To them, I'm hardly a credible witness."

"But once we have the cure, and if the cure still works," murmured Tyr, "they'll want to know the entire story of how we found it." He leaned back against the wall, eyes distant. "That will be a good time to show them Saysa's memories. Perhaps we could throw in Apollo's dreams as well, or even my memories of Livonia and my… conversion, I suppose." His lips twisted wryly.

Daphne arched a pale brow at him. "What conversion, Master Ulfhednar? I was under the impression that you remain a skeptic still."

He shrugged. "You're wearing me down," he confessed dryly. "I'm not there yet, not entirely, but I'm getting there. And everyone? Call me Tyr."


	9. Mark Marked

I don't like to beg for reviews, guys, but... please? *puppy dog eyes* I need encouragement now. I'm not threatening to quit or anything, I just feel kind of ignored.

Also, there's a poll about Neville's Animagus form up on my profile. Please vote.

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><p><em>The world is grown so bad,<em>

_That wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch. _

_-Richard III, _1.3.74-75

Subtlety was not Mark Potter's strong point. He certainly tried to hide secrets and keep his own council, but he was nowhere near his crafty brother's level. Moreover, he had become rather impatient since going to Hogwarts and realizing his destiny as the Boy-Who-Lived. That was why, instead of researching for untold periods of time asking leading questions to the Care of Magical Creatures Professor (in the guise of trying to decide which classes to take the next year, as Harry's gang was doing with much of their research), he went for the direct approach: "Hey Hagrid, what kind of creature frightens spiders?"

The half-giant gave him an odd look. "What brought tha' on?"

"Er… I was thinking about the attack on Lockhart and Snape," he improvised. Hagrid's face crumpled, so he hastened to add, "I was thinking that maybe if you could find some kind of creature that would scare those things away, it would never happen again. You'd be a hero! You could even write a book about it."

It didn't exactly cheer him up, but it did start turning the gears in his head. The half-giant rested a hand in his bushy beard and mused, "Dunno. I s'pose some rocs might do, but those take years ta train. B'sides, it's near impossible to get yer hands on roc eggs, an' they don' do well this far north. Hmmm… basilisks scare all sorts o' spiders, the little ones an' acromantulas. An' one could keep Norberta company."

"Who's Norberta?" Mark asked. Who and whatever it was, it would probably try to eat him any day now.

"No one!" the groundskeeper yelped. "Anywho, basilisks. They'd be good for defense, too, just in case… in case the spiders did come back." He sniffled at that, though Mark couldn't fathom why. Why wouldn't he want the horrible things to come back so they could all die? If _he_ had a rock or a basil-whatsits, he'd send it after the acromantulas before they hurt someone else- which, as giant man-eating spiders, they were bound to do eventually.

"Wha else, wha else… mebbe quintapeds. Dunno if they'd attack spiders, but they're tough. Have t' be, t' survive on tha' island o' theirs. Can't think o' anything else, though." He shrugged his massive shoulders.

"So rocks, basilisks, and quintapeds might scare those spiders away from the school?" reiterated Mark.

Hagrid bobbed his head.

"That's awesome! Er… what exactly are they?"

The groundkeeper perked up and spent two happy hours describing how rocs, basilisks, and quintapeds were all "jes' misunnerstood."

* * *

><p>"It's either a roc, basilisk, or quintaped."<p>

"What?" Ron gave his friend a strange look. "What's either a roc, basil-thingy or whatever-you-said?"

"The thing that scared the giant spiders- the acromantulas," Mark explained. "Personally, I think it's a basilisk or quintaped because someone would have noticed a roc flying around."

"What exactly are those things?" Dean asked, in a bizarre repetition of his friend's earlier conversation with Hagrid.

Mark, though, did not waste time explaining that all these creatures (and dragons, and manticores, and chimeras, and everything else Hagrid had mentioned) were sweet and cuddly. He cut to the point. "Rocs are giant birds from southern deserts, basilisks are giant snakes with death glares, and quintapeds are these evil hairy things that are supposedly descended from a bunch of Transfigured wizards. One of them scared the spiders away."

None of his friends seemed very concerned. "That's nice, but why do we care?" wondered Seamus. "I'm not delivering it a thank-you note or anything."

The Boy-Who-Lived glowered. "We care because I'm going to kill it, and I want to know what I'm up against."

Ron blanched. "You're going to kill the thing that's keeping the spiders _away?_ Why in Merlin's name do you want to do that?"

The younger Gryffindor wasn't about to explain his crisis of courage. He scowled back and snapped, "Do _you_ want a giant snake or vicious five-legged brute in the forest? It's probably already killed and eaten those acromantulas. What happens when it gets hungry again?"

"I'd rather have a giant snake than giant spiders," Ron whined, but he was starting to look worried.

"What we need to do," Mark proclaimed, "is figure out which one it is and where it's hiding. And we have to do that soon, before it attacks."

"I think it's the basil-thing," Dean said. "And it's probably hiding in the Slytherin Common Room, being a snake and all." He grinned.

Ron and Mark laughed, but Seamus looked thoughtful. "Something about that sounds familiar," he mumbled. "Slytherin monster… _Slytherin's _monster…."

The others frowned at him, waiting for elaboration. Seamus chewed his lip. "I haven't heard about it for a long time, but… I think there's this story about Slytherin leaving his pet monster somewhere in the school. It's…. Come on, guys. Let's go to the library. I think it's mentioned in _Hogwarts, a History._"

No one was particularly thrilled about doing independent research this close to exams, but they obediently followed him into Madame Pince's domain. She nodded at them as they entered- Mark was a favorite of hers- and went back to shelving books.

_Hogwarts, a History _was one of the largest books in the library: taller and broader than most, it managed to cram nearly two thousand pages between its thick covers. The cover was a photo of the school cycling through the seasons, winter to spring to summer to fall.

"It should be near the beginning," Seamus muttered, "seeing as it's about Slytherin." He hefted the book from the shelf and grunted. "Blimey, that's heavy!"

"And look at how tiny the print is," Ron despaired, flipping it open.

"Introduction- nothing there, I bet," Seamus read. "Chapter One- The Founders. Chapter Two- The Founding. Chapter Three- Slytherin's Flight."

"Let's start at the second chapter," Mark suggested. "It's probably there."

But it wasn't. Almost thirty pages of tiny text, but no mention of Slytherin's monster.

"This is stupid," Ron complained. "Let's go eat; I'm starving."

"No, I think it's in this chapter," Seamus assured him. "I think that Slytherin shouted it out at Gryffindor just as he was leaving."

"Now you tell us," the redhead groused, but he remained at the library table as they read through the tome. Finally, their patience was rewarded.

_A curious legend has sprung up around Slytherin's departure. Supposedly, he had planted a hideous revenge within the very walls of Hogwarts, an inhuman being loyal only to him and his heir. This being, a monster of unidentified species, would slumber within the castle until Salazar or his direct descendent returned to the school, at which point it would be released to cleanse the building of unworthy students- namely Muggle-borns. _

_As might be expected, several headmasters and mistresses have attempted to find the so-called Chamber of Secrets in which this monster hid. Their expeditions revealed many hidden rooms and passages (see chapters 5, 10, 13, 22, and 26) and an infestation of doxies, but the Chamber, if it exists, remains hidden. Presumably, it will remain so until Slytherin's heir returns to the school and takes up his ancestor's mantle. _

_Events immediately following Slytherin's departure are fairly well documented…. _

"Should we look at those chapters?" asked Seamus, heady from his victory. His friends shook their heads. It was getting late, and they were hungry.

Besides, they'd found what they wanted.

"It's got to be a basilisk," Mark explained. "I dunno how long quintapeds live, but basilisks live a really long time. Hagrid told me about one that was nine hundred years old."

"And Slytherin's emblem is a snake," Dean agreed. "It's exactly the sort of thing the slimy old git would do- hide his monster in plain sight." He nodded wisely, confident in his assessment of a man who'd died over a thousand years ago.

"I always knew he was mad, but I never thought he started all this pureblood nonsense," Ron commented. "No wonder his House is full of gits and Death Eaters."

"What eaters?" Mark had the odd feeling he should know this, but he had no clue.

"Death Eaters. You-Know-Who's minions," the redhead explained. "They were all Slytherins, every last one." His rat Scabbers, who had recently awakened from a long nap, squeaked as if with agreement or laughter. It was hard to tell with rats. "Hush up, Scabbers," his master ordered, sticking a finger into his book bag.

The Boy-Who-Lived hesitated. He and Harry were no longer close, but they were still brothers. Perhaps he should defend the other boy- but he hadn't even known what Death Eaters were until just now. If Ron, who knew more, said they were all Slytherins, they were all Slytherins.

As they entered the Great Hall, he shot a sidelong glance at the green-and-silver table. The students seated there didn't look any different, he realized uncomfortably. If not for the colors of their ties, they were exactly the same as the other children.

He shifted, not liking these thoughts.

But they _were_ evil, he reminded himself; the Sorting Hat had been through their minds, and it had seen bad things. That was why they were in Slytherin.

Except Harry, of course. He could see his brother; the elder twin was talking animatedly with that blond girl and the black boy. The Hat had taken a long, long time to Sort him- that had to mean he had almost gone to one of the good Houses. Besides, he, Mark, was going to bring him back to the Light. It would be difficult to convert a Slytherin after almost two years, but it couldn't be as hard as deflecting the Killing Curse.

* * *

><p>"I've put this off far too long," Hermione grumbled.<p>

"What was that?" asked Luna, blinking at her dreamily.

"Nothing," the older girl sighed. "It's just something I told a friend I'd do but haven't yet.

"Oh. Okay." The first year went back to her dinner of artichokes, gravy, and jam. Hermione shuddered- Luna had mixed the ingredients together, and it looked absolutely _disgusting_- and felt for her wand.

The serpent sight flared to life for the second time that day. She blinked rapidly, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the light of Hogwarts. The Founders' magic was still strong, and she could see ancient traces that Saysa had identified.

But that wasn't what she was looking for. She turned to Mark, fully expecting to see a pure, unblemished aura.

His colors, she noticed, were a great deal less pleasant than his brother's; none of the purple charisma or silvery wisdom adorned his brow. His yellow loyalties flickered, struggled to survive. Aside from the flashing orange arrogance outlining his entire body, he was perfectly average.

He was average, save for the Horcrux present in his skull.

Hermione stared, jaw sagging. She blinked several times, hoping to banish the twisted blight that covered his V-shaped scar. It didn't work; the soul remained.

Voldemort's soul was present in Harry's brother.

In a way, that was worse than Harry being a Horcrux. He'd had time to get used to the idea, and he loved his brother. He'd been so afraid; how could Hermione confirm his fears?

No, no, _no. _It couldn't be true. It _wasn't_ true. She squeezed shut her eyes, moved her gaze to the Slytherin table. Harry was there, covered in a shining rainbow of gorgeous hues. Beside him sat Blaise with the band of a Seer round his eyes and Daphne with a weather witch's stormy aura. Yet she had to ignore those colors, to focus on the foul thing feeding off her friend's soul.

It was the same as what she'd seen on Mark.

A sob threatened to escape her throat. She forced the serpent sight away, but the awful images remained. Bad enough that Harry, strong selfless Harry, was afflicted, but to do such a thing to his brother? It was wrong, evil.

The Ravenclaw turned her gaze to Dumbledore, who was chatting happily with Flitwick. Did he know? She wondered. Did he know that two of his students were cursed with something so foul? And if he did, did he care?

Hermione pushed back her chair, muttered an excuse to Luna, and fled.

Soon she was in Myrtle's bathroom, shoulders shaking, frantically blowing her nose into an old piece of toilet paper. The ghost girl emerged from her toilet, frowning. "Aren't you Harry's friend?"

The mention of her friend only made Hermione cry more. Poor Harry. He loved his brother so much. How could she tell him that Mark, too, was doomed?

No, no, Granger. Pull yourself together. Sobbing like a baby won't help anyone; won't change anything. Hold your breath, girl, just like Mum told you to. Blow your nose, wipe your eyes, take another deep breath and hold it until you're ready to faint.

Breath in, breath out. In. Out. In. Out. Soon she was coherent again- not calm, not exactly, but recovered enough to think. Her thoughts were no longer as erratic as they had been, but relatively organized.

"Yes, I am," she finally managed.

Myrtle brightened. Ignoring the Ravenclaw's tears, she asked, "How is he doing?"

Harry's brother was a Horcrux. She forced herself to mouth the words, to make them _real_. Both Potter twins were tainted by the Dark Lord's shattered soul.

"I asked you how Harry is doing."

Hermione grit her teeth. Couldn't the stupid ghost see she was busy, that she was pondering things more important than the dead girl's inane questions? Still, she had been raised to be polite, so she ground out, "He's quite well," and tried to recreate her scattered thoughts.

The images were interrupted by Myrtle, who stuck her hand through Hermione's stomach. The Ravenclaw yelped. "What was that for?"

"I asked if I could help," she sniffed, nose in the air, "but since you're so bent on being miserable, I guess I can't."

The offer momentarily shocked Hermione out of her unhappiness. Help from Moaning Myrtle was almost unheard of; she couldn't remember a single student receiving the suggestion before. The ghost girl must like Harry a great deal to do this for one of his friends. "Thank you," she exclaimed, touched. "I- it's-" She needed an excuse, something that would drive Myrtle off without offending her "-it's nothing really, just my- er, time of the month."

The spirit's eyes bugged out behind her glasses. "Oh," she squeaked, and fled into her toilet.

Heat rose to Hermione's cheeks. She was _never_ doing that again.

Yet despite her abrupt retreat, Myrtle really had helped Hermione. The mortification of mentioning _that_ to a stranger had shocked her out of her horrified despair. She could think logically now.

With a supreme effort of will, she forced herself to think of the implications. Her task was to solve the riddle; if this was the puzzle mentioned in the prophecies, their entire campaign depended on her making conclusions.

If Mark was a Horcrux (she shuddered, fought back more tears. Myrtle's distractions had done less than she'd thought), then Dumbledore's mistake concerning the identity of the Boy-Who-Lived made so much more sense.

She could imagine it easily: the old man in the broken home, inspecting two babies over his half-moon spectacles. Both infants were wounded; he had a fifty-fifty chance of identifying the Boy-Who-Lived on his first try. He taps his knotted wand to the younger boy's brow, whispers some spell-

And the first boy was a Horcrux. Calm and satisfied, the man doesn't bother testing the second, but vanishes in a crack like snapping wood, confident in his assessment. And so, by simple carelessness and arrogance, he leaves the true Boy-Who-Lived in his brother's shadow, letting Harry Potter become the Lightning Speaker destined to destroy him.

What would have happened had Dumbledore tested Harry first? Would he still have become the Speaker… or would that have been Mark's destiny? How strange. Perhaps, had things been just a little different, she would be sitting here sobbing at the prospect of telling Mark Potter, her friend and comrade-in-arms, that his brother was tainted….

One thing puzzled her about her new theory. Why wasn't Mark a Parselmouth? They'd always assumed that Harry's speech was the result of Voldemort's curse. Yet Mark, who had been affected in almost the same way, had shown no ability at all. Did that mean Harry had been born a Parselmouth?

She had no way of knowing. There were just too many other factors, too many variables, to come to a conclusion. She was left with mights and maybes: Dumbledore _might_ not know Harry, too, was a Horcrux; _maybe _he hadn't sentenced Harry to die by his brother's hand.

All she knew was that Harry had to know.

* * *

><p>"They are progressing well."<p>

Saysa turned to face Firenze. "They are," she agreed, and turned back to the stars.

The centaur joined her. "What do you see above us?"

"I see the march of years," she replied. "The heavens have changed since my youth- very subtly, but very surely. Their positions have altered, and they are dimmer now. It seems that they are fewer, too, that the blackness has swallowed many of them, though I cannot tell for certain. And I know that this, too, shall change. A thousand years from now, one of your descendants shall stand on this very spot and gaze at a different sky."

"You see the past and the future," the centaur mused. "Fitting for one with roots so deep and a destiny so bright."

"That is not why you have approached me," she said. "Nor did you come to comment on the children's exercise routine. Tell me, Firenze, what do _you_ see in the stars?"

"I see the Lost Pleiad, dim but not yet gone. I see Hyrdra crouching to pounce, and Leo and Serpens at war. I see the planets ascending, filling the darkness as well as they can." He paused. The wind rustled around them, a bare whisper in the silence of the night.

"What else?" Saysa's voice was soft as the wind.

"I see death," was his quiet response. "Castor comes for you, sword at the ready."

"I am not yet ready to die."

He turned to her, face pale with worry. "I see death. If it does not come for you, another will die in your place."


	10. Twins in Truth

_Everyone can master a grief but he that has it. _

_-Much Ado about Nothing 3.2.16_

Hermione had no intention of telling Harry that his brother was a Horcrux while the others were around. It wasn't that she didn't trust them- she would trust Saysa, Daphne, Neville, and Blaise with her life and soul- but that she didn't know how the Parselmouth would react. Perhaps the news that his beloved brother was a soul vessel would break through the young wizard's emotional shields, exposing the terror and revulsion within.

If that happened, she knew Harry wouldn't want their friends to see it. He wouldn't want her to see it either, but she couldn't help that. And though he would try to drive her away, to hide his shame and grief from her… Hermione would help.

She'd seen his strong mask falter a few times before: last Halloween, when he'd told them about his memories; January, when he'd learned the true nature of his scar; twice that month, when he'd confessed to the werewolves and escapees and when he'd divined Voldemort's location. Yet each time he'd pulled himself back, stopped the walls from crumbling. And each time he'd done so, he'd come a little closer to the brink.

Soon Harry was going to lose his composure. He had to; if he didn't, he wouldn't be human. Hermione had a strong suspicion that he would lose control at news of Mark's status.

And so she walked with him to the top of the Astronomy Tower, where there were no eavesdropping portraits and ghosts rarely trod. He knew they weren't really going up there to look at the Forbidden Forest through the telescopes, but they spent a happy few minutes gazing into the woods, searching for Saysa or the centaurs or even acromantula. They didn't find any, but neither minded.

But searching in vain for the forest's more exotic inhabitants couldn't delay them forever. Finally Harry turned to Hermione and commented, "This was fun, but I get the feeling you had another reason for bringing me up here."

She nodded, not meeting his eyes. How could she begin? But he was looking at her, waiting, face open and curious and hopeful. The Ravenclaw bit her lip, tempted to lie, to put this off, to do anything but break his heart. But she couldn't. Harry had to know.

"It's about Mark."

The color drained from her friend's face. He gripped the railing, knuckles going white. She could almost hear the thoughts racing through his mind: memories of Remus's fear, of her promise to him, of how she hadn't yet told anyone Mark's status. He looked at her with huge, horrified eyes, and she knew that he knew.

"No…." Harry's voice was a whimper, tiny and terrified. "He can't- the Sorting Hat- he _can't_!"

"I'm sorry," Hermione whispered. "I wish he wasn't, but his scar… I'm sorry, Harry." She leaned over to hug him.

"No!" The boy jerked away, backing into the railing. His feet were mere inches from the ledge. "Not Mark, not Mark. I'd rather have two of them in _my_ head. Please, Hermione, tell me you're joking!"

Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. "I'm sorry, Harry," she repeated. "I looked yesterday, and there's no doubt. He is."

The Slytherin shuddered. His face was the shade of cream cheese. His shoulders heaved in tiny spasms. Tiny choking noises escaped from his throat. He turned, faced the drop.

Hermione hugged him, arms around his chest, head resting on his shoulder. "He'll be fine, Harry."

"No, he won't," the boy sniffed. His thin body trembled in her embrace. "I can't even cure my own Horcrux, Hermione. How can I save my brother if I can't even save myself?" His voice cracked on the last word, and then he was crying, tears streaming down his face, shaking, doing his utmost not to sob aloud.

Hermione didn't answer. She just held him tighter, whispering worthless platitudes and squeezing his hand.

_Oh, Harry. It's okay to cry. It's nothing to be ashamed of. I cried when I found out, and I'm not even his twin. Cry, Harry, cry, let it all out…. _

But he didn't. He shook, he made miserable noises deep in his throat, but no sobs escaped.

Finally Harry's trembles subsided. He straightened, quiet save for the occasional hiccup. "Sorry," he rasped. "Didn't mean to… to fall apart like that." He sniffled, wiped his nose across his arm.

His friend nodded. _You didn't fall apart, though. You should have. _She stepped back, releasing him from her embrace so they could talk. "I reacted in the same way. Are you…." She trailed off. No, Harry was not okay, and she was foolish to ask.

He smiled bitterly, shook his head in answer to her unasked question. His gaze became distant. "Why didn't the Sorting Hat mention this?" he whispered. "It Sorted him, too."

"I don't know," she replied.

He sat, leaning against the wall. His legs folded into an almost fetal position. His face crumpled. "Poor Mark."

"Poor Harry," Hermione shot back.

He nodded, snorted. "Poor Potters."

He sat there for a long time, gazing towards the forest without seeing anything. Hermione sat, too, close enough to support him but far enough away to give him space. She remained quiet, letting him grieve.

It was harder than she'd thought, remaining silent. She'd never thought of herself as a chatterbox, but she was accustomed to speaking, to filling up the empty spaces with words and questions and observations. Many times she opened her mouth to make some inane comment, only to close it again at the last second.

Finally she couldn't take it anymore. "We'll figure something out, Harry."

The Slytherin bared his teeth in a bitter grin. "Like what? Voldemort and I have more knowledge of Horcruxes than anyone alive, but I can't think of anything that will destroy a soul fragment and preserve the living vessel. Unless Voldemort is suddenly overwhelmed by regret for his actions- which isn't bloody likely- Mark and I will stay this way until we die."

Hermione flinched. "I- but we can't give up trying, Harry. If we don't try, we'll never accomplish anything."

"I know that!" he snarled, jerking to his feet. "But even though we _are_ trying, we haven't accomplished anything except chronic exhaustion. The idea of Horcruxes is that _they can't be destroyed._ They're bound so intimately to their vessel that- I'm not killing Mark!"

"Of course you're not!" she cried, standing. "Killing Mark was never an option, just like killing you was never an option. We've discussed this, remember? If we can't find a way to destroy the Horcruxes without hurting you, Saysa will Petrify Voldemort and kill him after you're dead."

"That's fine and dandy, but it won't stop us from living our lives with _him _in our heads!"

"What do you want me to say? I don't know what you're going through, and I admit it, Harry, but that doesn't mean I can't at least try to help! Would you rather have me abandon you to your misery and let you drown in self-loathing?"

"Yes!" he snarled, throwing up his arms. "Better to abandon than to lie! Besides, I don't need you."

"Yes," she growled, "you do. You need me, and Blaise, and Neville, and Daphne, and Saysa, and Sisith, and everyone else. You need us, Harry… just like Mark needs you."

He slumped, anger evaporating as quickly as it had appeared. "Thank you for telling me first, Hermione," he said dully. Then he turned and jumped off the tower.

* * *

><p>Pinions flew, relishing the play of wind against his feathers, the way his body moved so easily, so instinctively, through the air. He'd loved flying since his first broomstick lesson, and now that he could fly of his own power…. It was exquisite.<p>

He was vaguely aware of Hermione shrieking behind him, above him, so he caught an updraft and rose. He cawed once. Their eyes met, and she nodded. A relieved smile bloomed across her face. The Ravenclaw raised one hand in farewell and watched him fly away.

He wheeled to the forest, the abode of centaurs and acromantulas and unicorns and all sorts of creatures, dark and light and neutral.

His thoughts tumbled, tripping over each other, congesting his befuddled mind. Only a few facts penetrated his fog of misery. Mark was a Horcrux. Mark was cursed. He and his brother were the only reason their parents' killer was alive.

At least Mark didn't have the memories. He wouldn't have been able to handle them; Harry had had trouble handling them at first. He still did, if a particularly unpleasant recollection snuck up on him.

Why hadn't the Sorting Hat told him? The stupid headpiece had to have known that Mark, too, had a gift that was a curse; that Mark, too, had unwelcome company in his own skull; that Mark, too, was irrevocably tied to the man who had killed his parents, the monster who had wanted to kill two innocent babies….

He had to find a cure, but what could he do? There was nothing, nothing! The only way to destroy a Horcrux without harming its host was for the vessel's maker to feel regret, _genuine_ regret, for what he had done. Voldemort wouldn't feel regret if his miserable half-life depended on it.

Harry shrieked in impotent rage. His raven's caw tore through the forest air. It was not the call of a scavenger, a searcher after corpses; it was the cry of a predator rendered helpless by its prey.

It was not _right, _it was _foul, _it was_ wrong _on the deepest level possible- what had they done to deserve this? _What had his brother done?_

He screamed again, louder this time, and pumped his wings, harder, harder, ascending above the shadowed forest, into the sky.

He flew for a long, long time, driving himself to exhaustion, burying his misery and helplessness and rage under a veil of bone-deep weariness.

When he came to himself again, the sky had faded to orange and pink and purple. Sunset painted the west, and the first stars flickered weakly on the eastern horizon.

And he was lost.

The Animagus had been so focused on escaping his treacherous emotions that he hadn't paid attention to his location. Now he found himself in the depths of the forest, far from human habitation, a stranger in a strange land.

The bird perched on a branch. His wings ached with unaccustomed exertion. His arms would be sore tomorrow, possibly for the next week.

Harry shifted back to human form. The ache eased somewhat, though he still rubbed his shoulders to force the pain away. He panted, chest heaving, sweat beading on his forehead. It traced his lightning-shaped scar, falling between his eyes, stinging them like the tears he had shed.

He sat there for a time, watching as the sun faded further, as pink and orange darkened to purple and indigo. Then, with a heavy sigh, he reached into his robes and withdrew a green serpent ring.

"**Hope," **he hissed, reflecting bitterly on how ironic, how untrue, the activation word was.

The Chamber of Secrets was pitch-black and silent as a tomb. He removed his wand, whispered the incantation, and light flared at its tip. Then he realized that it wasn't his wand he'd used, but Voldemort's.

Harry smiled darkly; Voldemort's wand and his wand were brothers. Yet Mark's wand was not. What did that mean? Was it simply because Harry had acquired his wand first, or was it because he was so much more like the monster: ambitious and powerful and cynical? They shared so much, he and the Dark Lord….

"But this," the Lightning Speaker whispered, withdrawing his own wand, "is mine alone." And its light was bright, brilliant, like everlasting lightning in the dim Chamber.

He touched the Portkey once more and smiled.

* * *

><p><em>He faced the south, sun burning above him, crossroads at his feet. The land was bleak and barren, a desert of shifting sands and sweltering stone. Lizards and snakes basked around him, soaking up the heat. Somewhere nearby, a lion growled. <em>

_A great wind picked up, swirling the sand into fantastic patterns. He thought he saw shapes in the whirling sand- a hand, a horned man, an intricate twisted braid. The shapes brought him joy. _

_But no shape brought him as much joy as the source of the stormy wind. It was a raven, tall as a house, black feathers blazing with purple and blue and green. Its eyes shone like lightning, and it flapped its powerful wings again and again, forcing the dust of the desert to flee. _

_Then there was a scream that was somehow many cries woven together. He turned again- and trembled. _

_The phoenix was large as a castle, a behemoth of bloody red. Its crest was like a tree, its wings wide as a bridge. It flapped those wings, trying to force the sand back into place… yet despite its size, its power, its rival held his own. _

_The red bird's cruel eyes smiled. _Kill the first to break the Stormson's wings,_ it said in a multi-tongued voice. _I know who the first is.

You know not,_ the raven laughed. _You know nothing, foul ancient spider. Air may be first, but it is not First. He is safe, beyond your reach.

_The phoenix opened its knife-sharp beak. _Yet without the air to breathe, without the wind to whisper in your ear, you cannot hope to defeat me. _The beak opened wider, and wider, and wider. It sucked in a deep breath, deep as the sea, and sucked up the sky. _

_The watcher choked. Earth and fire and even water remained, but the air was gone. Without it, they would die. _

Blaise jerked awake, gasping and panting. The room seemed cold after the fiery desert, cold and damp.

He understood a lot of what the dream was about- some of the symbols were fairly obvious- but the devil was in the details. Why had the birds spent so much time blathering on about air and firsts? What, if anything, had he really seen in the shifting sands?

And what in the name of Merlin had the phoenix done to the atmosphere? The air had been gone. Above them, the sky had opened to the utter blackness of space.

"I hate prophetic dreams," he muttered. "Give me a nice piece of the past any day."

He considered waking Harry up but decided against it. His roommate had been exhausted when he went to bed earlier that night, worn out in mind and body. Besides, Hermione had requested a meeting in the Chamber the next day. He could tell everyone then.

The Slytherin tried to return to sleep, but it was futile. He tossed and turned, images swimming behind his closed eyelids: the desert, the phoenix and raven, the pictures in the sand…. He gave up around three a.m. and Portkeyed to the Chamber, where he spent the next several hours combing the prophecies for any reference to a First or to air.

There were quite a few, it turned out. Three verses seemed to refer to Daphne's weather witch abilities, calling her the "commander of the waters of the skies." Several others referenced storms, which seemed to be a metaphor for tumultuous change in the Wizarding world.

The other verses were more cryptic. _Wind beneath the owl's wings/ Flows through the tree of death/ Kindles flame, wakes water, comforts earth/ Supports the stormy clouds. _It could just be another reference to Harry, but Blaise doubted it.

_Skies above him, earth below him/ Flame and water, his right hand and his left. _

Why in the name of Merlin were these prophecies so confusing? Did ancient Seers deliberately put their predictions into the most obnoxiously cryptic language possible? And Ravenclaw's _Book of Hope and Despair_, where these oracles had come from, was the worst of the lot.

One prophecy seemed to be all about the First, who or whatever that was. _First to go, first to come/ First to love the silver dome/ First to change, first to choose/ One of the only ones to lose. _Saysa's notes indicated she thought this stanza was about Harry, the first among the five companions, but Blaise didn't think so. The raven in his dream had referred to this First as something completely separate from himself.

_The First is the beginning/ Of the end of shadows/ Of ancient curses lifted/ Of allies brought to heel. _Ravenclaw again. This one also seemed to be about Harry, but Blaise couldn't fight the feeling that it wasn't.

"Stupid prophecies," the Slytherin growled, slamming shut Gryffindor's _Book of Battles. _

"What were you looking for?"

Blaise started; he hadn't heard Hermione arrive. The Ravenclaw graced him with a tiny smile. "Perhaps I can help find it."

"I had a prophetic dream last night," Blaise sighed.

Her face lit up with interest. "Did it have anything to do with retrieving the Chalice?"

"Nope. It was more of a nightmare, actually."

Hermione shuddered. Prophetic dreams were good. Prophetic nightmares were not.

"A warning," he continued.

Hermione grimaced. "That's awful," she sympathized, "especially now. We don't need any more bad news."

His heart sank. "What do you mean, 'any more bad news'?"

"That's why I called the meeting," she replied quietly. "I just wish we could have contacted Saysa. She should know this, too."

Blaise muttered the first half of a curse word before changing it to something less offensive at the last second. Hermione loathed profanity. She frowned at him, not certain if she should pursue that line of conversation, when Daphne appeared. The weather witch tucked her snowflake pendant into her robes, took one look at their faces, and observed, "This meeting will be filled with bad news, won't it."

"Yes."

"Yup."

She closed her ice-blue eyes and sighed heavily. "I shouldn't be surprised."

Neville and Harry popped in almost at the same moment. Fortunately, none of the Portkeys transported to the exact same space- too much risk of collision- so they were safe.

Harry looked awful. It wasn't anything physical- no dark bags under his eyes, no unnatural paleness or wounds- it was his aura, his attitude. Gloom shrouded him like a cloak. Evidently, he knew what the meeting- or at least Hermione's portion of it- was about.

With a sinking feeling in his gut, Blaise realized why the meeting had been called.

"I looked at Mark two days ago," Hermione whispered. "With the serpent sight, that is. He's… he's a Horcrux." The girl looked ready to burst into tears.

Blaise looked toward Harry. His friend's shoulders were stiff, uncompromising. His face was blank, but he kept his eyes averted, pointed toward the ground, hiding the emotion behind them.

"And," Hermione continued, blinking back tears, "I think that Dumbledore knows about Mark's… condition… but not about Harry's, and that's why he told everyone that Mark is the Boy-Who-Lived. He doesn't know any different."

Harry looked up. That, apparently, had been news to him as well.

"But why didn't the Sorting Hat say anything?" asked Neville. His round face had turned white. "It's been in his head, too. Why didn't it say anything?"

Hermione flung up her hands. "I don't know. All I know is that his scar is cursed, too, so we have even more motivation to find a way to destroy these things!" Her voice had risen by the end of the rant, filling the Chamber with echoes.

"If there is a way," muttered Harry.

"There is." Surprisingly, this came from Neville. His face had regained its color and hardened, making him older than his twelve years. "I don't know what it is or how to find it, but there is a way to destroy the Horcruxes without killing you and Mark. We just have to find it."

* * *

><p>Poor Harry. Poor, poor Harry.<p>

Anyone have guesses about the dream? It will be the subject of much discussion next chapter, so go back and reread it. Also, if you haven't read _Behind and Between,_ go do that. It's part of this series too, though not an official book, and it has some pretty essential information.

Just a reminder- vote for Neville's Animagus form on my profile.

-Antares


	11. First Touch

_Tempt not a desperate man. _

_-Romeo and Juliet _.67

Remus buried his head in his hands. Beside him, Sirius made a tiny, horrified sound. His face altered subtly, exposing the ravages of Azkaban. "You're sure?" he rasped, clinging to one final, desperate hope.

"I'm sure." Pallas hung her head.

Remus glanced at Pollux. The wizard's jaw was set, his mien hard and unblinking. He might well have been a statue, save for the burning emotion in his eyes.

It was awful, terrible that Lily and James's son was a Horcrux. It was wrong that Sirius's godson was an anchor for Lord Voldemort…. And it was awful that, beneath all the horror and terror and grief, Remus was relieved. Mark might be a Horcrux, yes; but Harry was not.

There. He had admitted it, if only to himself. He was _glad_ that his moon-touched godson was not the Boy-Who-Lived, was untainted by Voldemort's final curse. He was _glad_ that Pollux and Mark, the boy who had saved them all, suffered instead of his godson.

And it wasn't even the wolf's fault. The beast was obsessed with Harry's safety, yes, but he hadn't felt it touch the corners of his mind, hadn't sensed it nudging him towards relief.

To silence the ugly happiness inside of him, he said, "Is there anything… Pollux, is there anything you've done to make your condition more… livable? I mean, I know there's no cure, but… there has to be something."

"Occlumency," the Parselmouth sighed. "I _think_ it helps, but I was an Occlumens long before I knew about my condition. Perhaps my mental shields have kept the fragment from getting stronger, but I don't know. Occlumency deals with minds; Horcruxes are soul magic. Besides, Mark refuses to learn Occlumency."

His eyes widened. Remus started. "You've had contact with Mark?"

Pollux's face went blank, but the werewolf could practically hear him cursing his slip-up. He must be very shaken up indeed to let anything past the doors of his mouth. "Indirectly, yes," he admitted shortly. His tone made it clear that he would not tolerate any more prodding.

And speaking of Harry's brother…. "He needs to know."

Pollux pulled up short. "No!" he yelled.

The outburst was so uncharacteristic that Remus paused, letting the other wizard continue. Very shaken up indeed. "No, we will _not_ tell him. If he understood that he was harboring the soul of the man who killed his parents, he would shatter. And what possible purpose could telling him serve? We can't do anything about either Horcrux anyway. Why should he suffer without cause?"

The man's face was flushed with emotion. His entire body shook with passion.

For a long moment, they remained frozen, Muggle and wizard and werewolf. Then Pollux's shoulders lowered. "Besides, there's nothing he can do about it. From what I've seen of him, Mark seems the kind of boy who needs to act. Paralysis, even forced inaction, would do more harm to him than not knowing about his condition." His gaze challenged them to say otherwise. No one obliged.

"Then what do we do about it?" Sirius demanded. Like his godson, he was a wizard of action.

"Nothing, for now." Bianca's voice was cool and calm.

The men turned to glare at her. "What do you mean, nothing?" growled Pollux.

"I mean that we can't do anything for Mark that we aren't already doing. Don't look at me like that; you know it's true. At least, you would if you were thinking more rationally. My point is that we aren't making progress on the Horcrux front, and without new material or a burst of intuitive insight, we are going to stay that way for quite some time." Her face, her tone, was calm as a lake, but still water runs deep.

"And what," hissed Pollux, fists clenching, "do you suggest we do?"

"Focus on what we _can _do: retrieving the Chalice of the Moon. We know where it is, we know the security around it, and we know why it's necessary. All we need to do is form a plan to steal it."

Pollux deflated. Suddenly he looked very young, very vulnerable. He almost looked like Harry would when (or if) he found out his brother was a Horcrux.

The wolf snapped to attention. Its nonexistent ears pricked. Its muzzle fell open in shock, a stunningly human gesture. Then it howled with triumphant joy.

_No. _Bad enough that it reacted to Harry when he was actually there; now it was coming out _more?_ He'd only _thought_ about his godson this time! What was he supposed to do, stop thinking about the boy entirely?

The wolf retreated to its place in his mind, tail thumping with satisfaction. It left the teasing taste of triumph on Remus's tongue.

"I'm not pushing you and Mark aside, Pollux," Bianca said gently. "But you must admit that there is nothing we can do about your conditions. No book in Britain has offered any suggestions. Besides, perhaps taking a break will help you process all the new information you have. Inspiration strikes when you least expect it."

The Parselmouth pulled himself together. "You're right," he growled, businesslike once more. "My apologies, everyone. Now, Bianca, did you have any specific plans?"

She shook her head. "Sisith's mission was essentially walk-in, walk-out, but he isn't human and he didn't attempt to steal anything. The Ministry might be incompetent, but I've no doubt that they've enchanted their possessions against theft."

"Which means that Pollux will have to go in," Pallas decided. "He's the only one of us with experience- well, sort of- of breaking and entering." She grimaced slightly at the reference to Voldemort's memories and touched his shoulder apologetically.

"I think Saysa should go too," Alexander volunteered. "The spells… well, Sisith's a snake, and he got out all right. If the spells are designed for human thieves, maybe they won't work as well on a basilisk."

"Good idea, Al," murmured Apollo.

"I'm going too," Tyr declared.

Pallas gave him a worried look. "Are you sure about that? You're still an outlaw."

The alpha nodded. "Three reasons. The first is that I'm already in trouble with the law and don't have much to lose. The second is that I'm not human either, and that might exempt me from some of the guardian spells. The third…. I'm the leader of my people. It's in the job description."

"Just the three of you?" fussed Pallas. Her dark eyes were wide with worry.

Pollux seemed lost in thought. Finally he nodded. "And Sisith, I think. He lived in the Department for four days. Even though we've seen the Pensieve, he will still know that section of the Ministry better than we do. I can teach you a few words in Parseltongue, things like left and right and forward, so he can guide you even if something happens to Saysa or me."

"Nothing's going to happen to either of you," Pallas growled.

Her leader held up placating hands. "Nothing will. It's just better safe than sorry."

They spent the next several minutes rehashing everything they knew about the Ministry, the Department of Mysteries, and the Department of Historical Artifacts. Remus found himself totally unable to contribute or focus. He had no reason to; he had never been there, and he wasn't planning to invade it. Instead, he thought of the wolf.

He didn't know why, or how, or anything. All he knew was that it was getting stronger, and presumably would continue to do so. The only thing that stood a chance of stopping it was the Chalice of the Moon.

Then another thought, a terrifying idea, struck him. He didn't know when he would have access to the Chalice, or even if it would work. For all he knew, its enchantments had worn off sometime in the past few centuries, or someone in the Department of Mysteries had ruined its magic, or it had never worked in the first place and Thiess had been chasing a dream.

By the time the planning was over, Remus had convinced himself that the cup would fail; that his wolf-self would grow stronger until it overwhelmed his mind; that unless he did something drastic, he and everyone around him were doomed. What that drastic salvation might be, though, he had no idea.

When the invasion plans were over, he turned to leave. Apollo stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Wait. There's one more order of business we need to attend to."

For a wild moment, the werewolf thought that the Seer _knew,_ that he was ready to do… something… to fix it. Hope and panic flared in his chest, only to be quenched moments later when Apollo announced, "I had another Dream last night. No, not a piece of the past. It was prophetic."

He described the desert and the storm, the immense raven and its monstrous phoenix rival. "The interpretation seems pretty clear to me. Dumbledore is going to try and destroy this air thing. If he manages it, then you're toast, Pollux."

"How does the raven represent Pollux?" demanded Remus. He thought of Harry, a raven Animagus. "What if it involves my godson?" In the back of his mind, the wolf laughed. _Quiet, you,_ he ordered it. An image of a grinning canine flashed in his mind, and the creature fell silent.

Oddly, his question made the five tense. They exchanged quick, birdlike glances. Then Pollux admitted, "I'm a raven Animagus too, Moony."

Tyr's entire body went stiff. "I see," he growled.

The Parselmouth's head snapped around. Two gazes met, each sharp and hard as a goblin sword. Something passed between them: secrets acknowledged, explanations demanded, answers promised. Then the moment was over. The two men nodded slightly, alphas both, and returned their attention to the spoken conversation.

"I apologize for not mentioning it before," Pollux stated. "It never really came up."

More mysteries. He'd always known that they hadn't told them everything, even after mentioning the prophecies. Evidently, being a raven Animagus like Harry was part of what they'd left unsaid.

Everyone (except possibly Dudley) recognized the next sentence for what it was: an attempt to change the subject before someone other than Tyr penetrated that vast bulk of hidden things. Pallas, hands fluttering, squeaked out, "Does anyone have any idea what the birds were referring to?"

"I looked at the prophecies," Apollo sighed, "but you know how cryptic they are. Saysa's notes said she thought the First was the Lightning Speaker, but my Dream says otherwise. All I know is that the First is a male who isn't Pollux."

Tyr grimaced. He hated relying on the prophecies.

"That might imply that Air is also a person," noted Pallas. Her brow furrowed in thought. "May I see these prophecies, Apollo?"

The wizard grimaced. "Go crazy." He waved his wand, murmuring the incantation under his breath, and two thick tomes appeared. Ravenclaw's _Book of Hope and Despair _and Slytherin's _Foretelling_ had been bookmarked with old quills in several places.

"Owl quills are references to air that I think are relevant. Eagle feathers are about the First. The other ones are prophecies that mention either of these words but that I don't think are actually important."

For the next few minutes, they poured over the cryptic words. Even Dudley read them, though his 'help' only slowed them down.

Pallas's eyes were distant. "Hm… in the stanzas that Apollo feels are relevant, air is always mentioned in tandem with the other three primordial elements- fire, earth, and water. This seems to imply that air is part of a set. The phoenix in Apollo's Dream implies that air was the first of that set to… perhaps manifest, perhaps something else. We don't have enough information to know for certain."

"The first to meet Saysa," declared Bianca.

The other woman started. "What?"

"Four elements associated with the Lightning Speaker. Four individuals who act as his companions: the _Smoking_ Mirror for fire, the Prince of _Flowers_ for earth, the Daughter of _Frost_ for water, and Truth's Messenger for air."

"Me?" Pallas squeaked.

"Of course!" exclaimed Apollo. "The phoenix talked about the wind whispering in Pollux's ear. That's your job, Pallas- you have to give him some kind of message."

"Words are carried on the air," observed Pollux. "Bianca, I think you're right."

The Indian witch's face was pale beneath her dark complexion. "Dumbledore wants to kill me? He's _going _to kill me?"

The triumphant grin faded from Apollo's face. "Oh. It… seems he wants to. But don't worry, Pallas, now that we know, he doesn't stand a chance."

His friend did not look convinced.

"What about the First?" asked Alexander. "Do you know who he is, Bianca?"

The blond shook her head. Her eyes never left Pallas's stricken face. "I'm afraid not, Alexander. My inspiration seems to have fled."

The interaction of the next half hour was stilted, awkward, and fruitless. No one had any idea who the First might be. Their only clues were that he was male and not Pollux.

Perhaps if they had had less on their minds, they would have divined his identity. But they all had too much to absorb: the plans for entering the Ministry, Mark's awful curse, the upcoming attempt on Pallas's life, whatever Tyr had discerned, and the renewed strength of Remus's wolf-self. No wonder, then, that they couldn't imagine who he might be.

The meeting adjourned on a pessimistic note. No one said anything about the futility of continuing their conversation. All they did was wander off, one by one. Pallas and Alexander went off to find Saysa, Bianca and Apollo Portkeyed away without a word, Tyr and Pollux left to discuss whatever the other werewolf had seen. Soon only Remus, Sirius, and Dudley Dursley remained in the meeting room.

"…That was…." Sirius made an unhappy gesture.

"My thoughts exactly, Padfoot my friend." Remus massaged his temples.

Dudley, who had been silent all morning, finally spoke up. "I don't want Pallas to die. I like her."

"Us too," his guardian sighed.

"I don't want Mark to be a Horcrux either. I don't like him, but I really don't like that Voldemort guy. Maybe…" He hesitated, chewed his lip. "Maybe a dementor could suck the bad soul out of him? Then Voldemort would die, and he'd never kill people like Harry's mum and dad again."

Sirius shuddered. "It's not a bad thought, D, but I don't think it'll work. The dementors wouldn't stop with just Voldemort's soul. They'd eat Pollux's and Mark's, too."

The Muggle blanched, remembering his own time in Azkaban. Remus doubted he understood what it meant to lose one's soul- few people did- but Dudley knew how many people _chose_ life sentences in the foul prison over the Dementor's Kiss. The boy knew how awful a life sentence could be, and if people would rather spend their lives in Azkaban than kiss one of the guards…. He could not imagine how truly terrible the Kiss must be, and he didn't want to know.

"Harry isn't going to like this," the Muggle observed. He blinked. "Wait. Are you gonna tell Harry, Moony?"

"I don't know," the werewolf moaned. "I don't know."

On the one hand, Mark was Harry's brother, his twin, his only companion for the first eleven years of his life. Even after the younger Potter had abandoned his brother, Harry had worked ceaselessly to restore the bond between them. He loved Mark.

And it wasn't as though maturity would be an issue with him. Harry seemed so much older than his twelve years. In magic, in knowledge, in wisdom and common sense, he was just as accomplished as Remus himself. Perhaps the boy was more accomplished. He could hear the news without breaking.

On the other hand, what possible purpose could telling him serve? Harry would not be broken by Mark's condition, but it would _hurt_. And no matter how intelligent he was, he wouldn't know how to destroy the Horcrux and save his brother. Not if Pollux, with all Voldemort's knowledge of soul vessels, was stumped.

And if he did tell the boy… how would his wolf-self respond? The beast was absurdly protective of their shared godson. It had yet to respond to Harry's emotional states, but it was getting stronger all the time. If it perceived distress in its precious raven, who knew what it would do?

It was that thought more than any other which made up Remus's mind. He could not tell Harry about Mark if it might rouse the wolf and put them all in danger. Perhaps, if the animal inside him hadn't been so strong, he could have scrounged up the courage to break his godson's heart, but for now, he would keep silent.

Besides, he reasoned, maybe they would come up with a solution before he had to tell his godson.

"Earth to Moony." Sirius was shaking him. "Come in, Moony. Do you read me?"

The werewolf nodded, wondering when Dudley had taught Padfoot the Muggle expression- and if Sirius actually knew what it meant. "I read you, Houston."

"What?" Evidently he didn't know.

"I was thinking about whether or not to tell Harry. I don't think we should- not yet, at least. There's nothing he could do about it, and knowing would only hurt him."

His fellow Marauder did not look convinced, but Dudley nodded. He seemed content in accepting the older male's wisdom.

Padfoot muttered something about new cottages and wandered off. Dudley followed at his heels, leaving Remus alone with his thoughts.

The werewolf leaned against the wall. Without distractions, his mind returned to his own problem: the wolf. It was fairly obvious that his problem wasn't getting better, that it probably never would. He had no idea if the Chalice would still work, so he had to take matters into his own hands.

Suicide was a definite no. Life was hope, strength, love, change; he refused to surrender all those things to the heartless grave.

He remembered what he had done earlier that day, how he had made contact with the creature. It had listened to him, fallen silent at his order. Maybe if he spoke with it again, it would listen then, too? He didn't know. All he knew was that no matter how much he wracked his brain, he couldn't find another solution.

Remus Apparated directly to his destination, the full moon containment room which Harry referred to as Furryland. If the wolf took over, it wouldn't be able to escape- unless, of course, it somehow learned how to use Remus's wand. Just to be safe, he stored it on a jutting brick too high for an animal to reach. Then he sat in the fur of his fellows and delved into the depths of his own mind.

_Er… hello? Is anyone there? _

For a while it seemed that no one would answer. The wolf was sleeping again, and it would stay there until the next full moon. Then there was an odd sensation in the wall of his skull, like something pricking its pointed ears.

_? _

The wolf did not use words. It was only an animal, incapable of speech in the human sense of the word, but it could still communicate through sensation and emotion. Right now, it was sending sensations of curiosity into its host's mind.

Remus caught his breath. Once again, he was struck by how benign the animal seemed, how completely different from the monster of the full moon.

The wolf began to fade.

_No, wait! _He grabbed at it, forcing it to remain at the forefront of his mind. _Why did you come out today? _

_? _It didn't understand.

Remus brought back the memory of the wolf's presence earlier that day and added to it a sense of confusion and curiosity.

_Pollux's face, then Harry's; Pollux looking so forlorn, just like Harry would if he knew Mark was a Horcrux. Realization, connection, loyalty, for the raven was the one who leads the hunt. _

The human sent back a feeling of annoyance. The wolf responded in kind. It seemed to feel that he was missing something obvious. Without words, though, he had no way of interpreting what the wolf was trying to say.

Yet their conversation, short and juvenile as it was, took its toll on Remus. Sweat trickled down his face, matting his hair and hurting his eyes. His muscles ached with exhaustion. A migraine was building in his skull.

But he refused to give up- not now, not when he was so close. He had time for one last question. He forced vague half-memories of full moon nights across the void between their minds, memories of bloodlust and violence. _Why? _

Pain slammed against him, pain and loss and fear and grief. He yelped, grabbing at his hair. It hurt, hurt, hurt, _hurt!_

His human added words to the torrent cascading through their bond: _Because we are not the same. _


	12. Alphas

_So wise so young, they say, do never live long. –King Richard III, III.I.79 _

Tyr and the wizard who called himself Pollux Ophion Riddle but who was _not_ so, sat in silence. Though they continually scanned the other's face, neither actually met the companion's eyes. No one else was present. The Parselmouth's four friends- whose names and faces must be false as their leader's, though Tyr had no idea who they might truly be nor how they had accomplished this deception- had other tasks to complete.

"So," he said finally, shattering the glasslike silence.

"It's ironic that you found out," Pollux noted analytically.

The werewolf shook his head. "Not quite so ironic. You forget that you spent the entire summer in my friend's home. I got to know you then."

There it was, right out in the open. The cat was out of the bag, the milk spilled all over the floor. The younger wizard, the one who kept secrets, stiffened.

"What I want to know first is how you change your appearances," Tyr continued.

Harry started. That was quite possibly the last thing he'd expected the lycanthrope to ask. He'd thought the other wizard would be more interested in how he had perpetuated this deception, why they used the Fae forms at all, why he should listen to someone so young and inexperienced, and why shouldn't he alert Remus right this second? In other words, he'd anticipated something more… practical.

"The Winter Queen has a lousy sense of humor," he grumbled.

Now it was Tyr's turn to stiffen. The shadow of the wolf lurked in his eyes. "The Winter Queen?" he growled. "The one from stories who likes nothing better than to abduct people, keep them captive for a hundred years, and let them go once everyone they've ever known and loved has died?"

"The one and only."

The alpha stood, towering over his sitting companion. "And what in the name of Odin possessed you to meddle with them? And for that matter, how did you convince them to give you something like that?"

"Saysa and the Fae Queens know each other," Harry elucidated. "I wouldn't call them friends, but she's made certain they know about the prophecies. One of our prophetic tasks is to rebuild the roads between their world and ours."

Tyr's face went white. "Do you have any idea what that would mean, boy?" he hissed. "The raths were destroyed for a reason, you know."

"I know that," Harry snapped back, "but the raths were there for a reason, you know. They brought magic into the world. Once humans started closing them, the flow of magic diminished. That's why our world is so weak now- the world's natural magic isn't being replenished."

Color slowly returned to the lycanthrope's visage. Still, his breathing was heavy. "Who told you that?"

"Pallas looked at a rath with her serpent sight and saw it spilling magic into the world- and into us, as well. We deduced the rest on our own. It's obvious, really- look at how few weather witches and Parselmouths and Seers and Animagi and runemasters there are."

"Might be worth it, though, if it keeps the Fae out."

"Is it?" Harry demanded.

Tyr looked at his hands. Each full moon they changed to claws and paws. "What about magical non-humans?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Non-humans, like myself and your friend Saysa. We're innately magical."

An ugly thought was blossoming in his mind. If, as Harry/Pollux was suggesting, the Fae brought magic back into the world… what would happen to magical creatures if it died out?

But it seemed that, clever as Harry/Pollux was, he hadn't made that essential next step. And no wonder- the child (how old was he? Thirteen? Twelve?) had enough on his plate already.

But they were distracted enough already. If he mentioned this now, they'd get even further off topic, and he'd never learn what in the worlds was going on. He sat back down, ignoring the Parselmouth's confusion, and ordered, "Start at the beginning."

"That'll take a while."

"Then give me the short version."

"Okay, then. I ended up with a Horcrux in my head after Voldemort killed my parents, which remained dormant until my Sorting. The Hat woke it up. I thought at first that I'd received some ancestral memories, but after battling Voldemort for the Sorcerer's Stone at the end of the year, I realized they were his memories and spent the summer trying to adjust to that.

"Second year, Saysa told Pallas, Apollo, Al, and me about the prophecies. I went off to meet the Winter Queen, where I received this lovely new form. Meanwhile the Chamber of Secrets was invaded by a possessed first year, who in turn was driven off by an angry dragoness. The kid sent Voldemort's diary, which was what had possessed her, to Lucius Malfoy, who started kidnapping pureblood girls in a search for the Heiress of Slytherin. We rescued them and finally found Bianca, but Saysa noticed that my scar was a Horcrux- which in retrospect was pretty obvious. How else could I have gotten the bloody memories? Anyways, you know the rest." He spread his hands, palms out.

Tyr didn't blink. He repeated the man-child's words to himself. _Horcrux… Hat… possessed… scar…._

When suitable time for contemplation had passed, he met Pollux's- Harry's- eyes. "I don't like putting kids in danger," he announced bluntly. "But I don't like the thought of coming so close to Thiess's cure and not obtaining it just because you're young. So I'm going to ask you now: Harry James Potter, are you capable?"

The Lightning Speaker didn't hesitate. "I am."

Oddly, Tyr scowled. No child should have answered that way. A child should have hesitated, doubted, not squared his shoulders and met his eyes and said that he could change the world. "It's foul," he growled, "putting this burden on a kid's shoulders. I don't suppose you'd wait for a few years, gather up your strength and resume this once you're of age?"

The look on Harry's face was answer enough.

Tyr's frown deepened. "I could make you," he noted, very slowly, very calmly. "I could tell Remus. How do you think he'd react? And I could reveal your youth to the goblins. It would be pretty difficult to do anything without a following. I could expose you to the world to keep you safe."

"Is that how you'll repay me for saving your people?"

"By saving your life and your friends' lives? Yes."

"Then why didn't you?" he demanded. Harry stood, using Pollux's height to his full advantage. "You could easily have confronted me back when the other were still around. Instead, you waited to speak with me alone."

"It's a lot easier to give out knowledge than to take it back," the werewolf pointed out.

Harry acceded the point with a nod. "That doesn't change the fact that you kept quiet."

"Doesn't it?"

"It does," the Parselmouth proclaimed fiercely. "If you were going to sell me out, you've done it already." His chin jutted out, a picture of defiance.

"It's not selling you out, _boy_," Tyr snarled.

"Isn't it?"

He was silent, seething. "It's wrong," he condemned. "You're nothing but a child. You should be playing Quidditch and worrying about homework, not playing politics and worrying about werewolves and the Fae!" He slammed his fists together with a resounding _crack_.

"Not as young as you think," Harry hissed. "Voldemort's memories, remember? He'd older than you are."

"And he's _such _a good example." The lycanthrope oozed sarcasm.

"Believe it or not, he is. Whatever his flaws- and I know better than anyone that he was a foul, twisted piece of scum- he was cunning. And he provides another example, too- _what not to be._"

"If you know what not to be, you should know to wait."

"Wait for what? Should I wait for the werewolves to give up hope? Should I wait for the other races to abandon our cause? For Dumbledore to destroy my only remaining family? For Voldemort to rise again and send our world back into chaos?"

Their voices had risen to shouts. Had the cottage not been soundproofed to keep out the melody of the full moon, they would have been audible in the fortress proper.

"I will _not_ wait, not when waiting serves no purpose. You asked it yourself- _am I capable?_ I am, _despite_ my age!"

"And what about your friends?" Tyr roared. "They can't be more than a few months older than you! You might be prepared, but are they?"

"They are _more_ than prepared," Harry growled, voice low. "And they are certainly more prepared than everyone else. If not us, then who?"

He could not answer. They stood there, knuckles white, eyes blazing, shoulders heaving. The room was silent, save for their panting breaths.

Tyr deflated. His fists unclenched. His eyes lowered to rest their gaze on Pollux's fierce face. His breathing grew quiet as his shoulders rose to a permanent position. "If not you, then no one." It was a grudging admission, dragged out of him only by the most powerful force in the world: necessity.

Pollux melted, leaving Harry in his place. The boy seemed old and young at the same time: bowed down with experience beyond his meager years, lost and unhappy, but wise and filled with youth's unending hope.

Within Tyr's mind, a wolf bowed its head. Alpha he might be, but this one was Moon-Lord and Restorer.

"I'll keep your secret," he sighed. "Merlin help me, I'll keep your secret. You realize, though, that you can't keep this quiet forever."

"I know," Harry groaned. He rubbed at his temple.

The werewolf spoke the truth, though Harry didn't like to admit it. Sooner later Remus or Sirius would connect the dots. They'd realize that their ward was marked with lightning, and that the prophecies referred to a twin brother, that Harry and Pollux were never in the same place at the same time. Perhaps he could buy time with Polyjuice potion, throw a wrench in their agile minds, but he couldn't stop them from figuring out his true identity. Padfoot especially he was worried about- the Animagus had, after all, deduced that Moony was a werewolf with nothing but logic and luck.

On the other hand, at least he didn't have to worry about Dudley figuring him out. However, he did have to be careful against carelessness around him, because the Muggle would report his slip-ups to one of the Marauders.

"Think of a way to tell them," Tyr ordered. "Because if you don't, I will."

Harry stiffened. One hand drifted to his wand.

He could negate the werewolf's threat with a single word. No, not even a word, a thought. _Obliviate._

Tyr's eyes followed the younger wizard's hand. His jaw grew tight as he met Harry's eyes. _Well, boy, it's your choice. _

It would be easy, he knew. But falling always was.

What would he become if he cast the spell? Another Voldemort, another Dumbledore. Another Dark Lord hiding behind a mask of light. The thing he'd vowed never to become.

He lowered his hand. "One day," he promised softly. "But not now. As you said, I'm young. I need to at least hit puberty before admitting my… extracurricular activities." He would have preferred to have come of age before making his confession, but that obviously wasn't going to happen. He'd be lucky to keep this a secret until his fourteenth birthday.

Tyr nodded. "You'll tell when the time's right. No sooner, no later." He scowled again. "But that still doesn't mean I have to like it."

* * *

><p>"Where were you!" Hermione screamed.<p>

The witch was red-faced with rage. Her hair bristled like a cat's puffed fur, making her larger and more threatening than she actually was.

Saysa stared, not understanding her friend's anger. "I was consulting with the centaurs," she replied. "They believe that our attempt to retrieve the chalice will be successful, provided that Tyr and Sisith and I accompany Harry."

Hermione's mouth worked like a fish out of water. Neville stared from her to Saysa and back again. "That's creepy," he decided.

The basilisk had the distinct impression she was missing something.

"That's what we decided at the meeting," the Gryffindor tried to explain.

Saysa frowned. There had been a meeting without her? She had thought that they would wait.

"Well, if you agreed, of course," he amended hastily. "We were going to ask if you were interested, but it sounds like you are."

The Guardian was not accustomed to the prophecies moving along without her. She had been at their center for over a thousand years; now others knew the secret and were acting on it. She did not like how that made her feel.

But, she admitted to herself, she was at fault too. She'd lingered too long in the forest, contemplating what else the horse folk had told her.

"You've missed a lot," Neville said. His face set into a grimace. "Mark's a Horcrux and it looks like Tyr knows about who Harry really is."

Saysa went completely and utterly still.

Hermione regained the power of speech. "It's true. I looked at Mark with my serpent sight. He's a Horcrux. Harry… I don't think he's taking it well."

"Of course he's not taking it well!" Neville burst out. "You've seen how much he loves Mark, even after he's been a prat for the entire year. He's spent too much time protecting him to take this well."

At this, cold fear wormed up Saysa's spine. "Has he done anything?" she asked, forcing her voice to remain level.

"Not unless you count jumping off the Astronomy Tower," Hermione groused. She blanched at Saysa's horrorstruck expression. "But he turned into the raven before impact, so he's fine. He just flew around the Forbidden Forest for a while and completely exhausted himself."

"Daphne thinks we should put the Horcrux project on hold," Neville announced. "She says that we haven't made any progress, so we should take a break from it, digest everything we've learned, and focus on things we can do. I think she might have been trying to take Harry's mind off of it. Like I said, he's not…." The boy shrugged helplessly. "But she's right. There's nothing we _can _do."

"I wish that made it easier," Hermione lamented.

"Tell me more about the meeting," Saysa suggested. Like Daphne, she saw the wisdom in keeping their minds off unpleasant things. Yes, the ugliness and shadow would have to be confronted, but not yet. Not now.

They (mostly Hermione, though Neville occasionally piped up with a forgotten detail or two) replied with a quick summary of the day's events. They spoke of how Blaise's dream had led to Harry revealing Pollux's Animagus form, how that in turn might have clued Tyr in to their most closely-guarded secret.

How strange, to think that events were moving apace without her guidance. One of the major prophetic cycles had been planned without her input, her help. She knew intellectually that the prophecies no longer belonged to her- they were Harry's now, Harry's and the others'- but it seemed unnatural to see living proof of that fact.

But there was one fact that worried her even more than their new independence. "Harry is with Tyr _now?"_

Hermione's head bobbed in confirmation. "We should have stayed, but it looked like he wanted to face Tyr alone."

The serpent-woman sighed heavily. "What's done is done. All we can do is hope and pray that Tyr doesn't tell anyone else."

"Er," Neville gulped, "I don't think that will happen."

"I don't know," Hermione mused. "Harry can be very persuasive when he wants to be. Maybe he'll convince Tyr to keep quiet." But her tone was doubtful.

Saysa hated feeling so helpless. She'd only spent a few days in the forest, first to consult with the centaurs, then to decide what to do about Firenze's prediction. _Death comes for you, Lady of the Chamber…._ Like a fool, she had expected time to stay still for her. But it hadn't, and now Tyr knew their most closely held secret. He'd probably already told Remus and Sirius. The serpent-woman knew Harry would be fine physically- beating a child was frowned upon in this day and age- but what could and would they do? If they so chose, the Marauders and Alpha of Britain could destroy all their plans, expose them to the goblins, and ruin their chances for success.

"How long ago?" she asked softly.

"It took us almost two hours to find you," Hermione moaned. "Oh, I wish we had our Animagus forms!"

The basilisk's heart crumbled. They were too late.

* * *

><p>Blaise Zabini and Daphne Greengrass knew that Harry had to handle Tyr alone- and even if he didn't have to, he wouldn't let them interfere anyways. The two Slytherins reasoned that if the werewolf refused to see reason, Harry could always Obliviate him and move on. He'd have to Confund the alpha also, make up some plausible excuse for why they'd been conversing in secret, but the Parselmouth was creative enough to come up with something.<p>

"We should just make Hermione do this," the wizard grumbled, flipping through the ancient tomes in the Chamber of Secrets. "I'm sure she has some kind of spell to find it right away."

"You should have asked her," his classmate replied.

"I should have," the other Slytherin admitted, "but I kind of had a lot on my mind."

"You were looking for references to the First even before our meeting began," the girl pointed out. "You should have asked her then. She arrived early enough."

"I didn't think of it then. Have you found any more references yet?"

She shook her head, blond hair streaming. "Nothing so far. Have you?"

"Nope," he grumbled.

Daphne frowned. "Maybe we're going about this the wrong way," she murmured. "Instead of looking to the prophecies, perhaps we should find someone in the real world who fits what we already know about the First."

Blaise looked at the pile of thick, ancient books. Did he really want to go through them again, hunting down obscure references that might be about _a_ first, not _the_ First? Hermione would, but he wasn't Hermione. He couldn't read riddles for days on end and escape with this sanity intact.

"It's not one of us," he commented. "We get to be the four elements." That was so blindingly obvious in hindsight; four companions for four elements. Even their prophetic names hinted at fire, water, earth, and air. He had no doubt that the First's identity would be equally obvious.

"Perhaps it's another name for Saysa," Daphne speculated. "She certainly qualifies."

"First to know of the prophecies," Blaise acknowledged, "but what about the other stuff the First is supposed to do? _First to love the silver dome_." He thought of the other line from the prophecy and suppressed a shudder. _One of the only ones to lose. _

"It's only a possibility," the witch shrugged. "Do you have any other suggestions?"

"It could be Sirius," he mused. "He was the first person to get out of Azkaban. He's certainly lost enough to qualify."

"He could be," Daphne agreed. "What were the exact words of the prophecy again?"

"_First to go, first to come/ First to love the silver dome/ First to change, first to choose/ One of the only ones to lose_," Blaise recited. "The first to change bit kind of does sound like Saysa. And she kind of is the first ally 'brought to heel' or whatever the exact words are."

Daphne stared at the prophecy. Her lips worked soundlessly. "Silver dome… the moon?"

"You think it's Tyr?"

She shrugged. "It could be. He has always believed that lycanthropy is not inherently bad, just cursed. And when we retrieve the Chalice of the Moon, he will undoubtedly be one of the first to drink from it."

"Our first non-Saysa ally, too," Blaise murmured. "I think you're right, Daphne." He chuckled. "Are you sure you're not really Truth's Messenger?"

"Positive," she grumbled. "And I'm glad of it. Hermione's task might be the most difficult of all- she doesn't even know what riddle to solve."

Blaise froze. "Say, Daphne… if Tyr really is the First, what's he going to lose?"

"His memory?" she suggested.

"Maybe," the other Slytherin mumbled.

Later that day, when they learned that Tyr had grudgingly agreed to keep silent (though that might change at any moment), the two Slytherins exchanged nervous glances. If Tyr was the First and wouldn't lose his memory, what _would_ he lose?

* * *

><p>I don't like this chapter. I just... it's better than I thought, now that I'm looking back at it, but I still don't like it.<p>

Hopefully the next one will be up more quickly. Sorry about the wait.

-Antares


	13. Phantom Memories

_There's a place and means for every man alive. -All's Well that Ends Well _IV.3

"There's no point in waiting," Tyr announced bluntly. "We should go on Monday night."

Pollux stiffened. "So soon?"

The werewolf nodded. "We've planned enough. Nothing we come up with now can change our plans. Besides, the full moon comes on Wednesday. I'd like to have everyone in the CC cured by then."

"Why Monday?" asked Sirius. "Why not tomorrow?"

Tyr smirked. "Monday is the first day of the work week. Security will be even more lenient than usual."

"That's possible?" the Animagus sneered.

"It probably isn't," Tyr grumbled, "but I'm not willing to take that chance."

"Sisith wants to remind everyone that he didn't see anyone while he was in the Department of Mysteries," Pollux translated. The serpent hissed some more. "He also wants us to remember that our Portkeys can get us out at a moment's notice, so we probably shouldn't worry about humans catching us. It's the enchantments we need to look out for."

"Smart snake," muttered Tyr. "Saysa, are you sure you couldn't see anything on the cup?"

The serpent-woman shook her head. Two days ago, she had borrowed the goblins' Pensieve again and looked at Sisith's memories with her serpent sight. She had discovered that a surprising percentage of the items sequestered away were completely useless- mundane objects without any enchantments whatsoever. Other items blazed, forcing her to avert her eyes or go blind. The Chalice of the Moon was one of those.

She had been searching for protective wards, for anything that might give them away. She hadn't seen any on the cup, but that didn't mean anything. Its own magic was powerful enough to disguise any other spells.

The group was willing to bet that _none_ of the items were warded. Saysa hadn't seen _anything _on several of the objects, the ones without magic. The others, which had power of their own, glowed with only their own innate magic. She couldn't detect any additional enchantments on them, so they assumed that the Chalice was also unwarded.

The lack of protective magic fit with everything they knew about the Ministry's lax security, but no one dared to believe their good fortune. There was no such thing as a free lunch; even the best-laid plans of mice and men (and werewolves and snakes) went wrong. It was too convenient, and that made Harry-as-Pollux even warier than normal.

"Perhaps we should send Sisith to scout it out again," Hermione suggested, feet shuffling nervously. She had been spooked for days, ever since Daphne revealed that Dumbledore wanted to kill her. No one blamed her- if the headmaster had been after them, they would have reacted the same way.

And it certainly didn't help that exams were almost upon them.

Daphne shook her head. "Tyr is right," she declared. "The longer you wait, the more frightened everyone will become. Best to get it over with. I for one have no desire to drag this out until summer's end." She nodded toward Blaise, acknowledging his prophetic promise to the representatives of the races.

The Smoking Mirror nodded. "Even the centaurs think this stands a chance, and you know how gloomy they are."

Sirius shuddered. He'd heard the centaurs' recommendations from Saysa and thought that their accuracy was downright creepy.

The others nodded their assent. Pallas grimaced, sighed. "I'm sorry. You're right, I know you are. I shouldn't be so paranoid."

"You're not paranoid when they're really after you," Pollux reminded her. Her lips twitched as she nodded in acknowledgment. Then, when he turned away, her smiled faded.

Having Dumbledore after her blood was nothing to smile about.

*Pagebreakisn'tworking*

* * *

><p>The Gray Lady, who long ago was known as Helena Ravenclaw, faded into visibility. The boy who had been seeking her jumped. Even after almost two years in the magical world, he still wasn't accustomed to ghosts appearing from nowhere.<p>

Normally, the spirit ignored those who sought her out. She doubted that her mother's diadem was still in Albania, but that didn't mean she would give its location to anyone who asked. But this boy was special. If he wanted her to guide him to the diadem's final resting place, she would.

"You wish to speak with me, Mark Potter?"

The Boy-Who-Lived gulped. He forced a grin. "Yeah. I heard from Nearly-Headless- I mean, Sir Nicholas that you know a lot about the castle."

"I do," she acquiesced. She had heard this script hundreds of times. Any second now he would open his mouth and ask-

"Have you ever heard of the Chamber of Secrets?"

She pulled up short. "I'm sorry?"

"The Chamber of Secrets," Mark repeated. "Have you ever heard of it?"

"_Mother," began the much younger Helena, "why are these people telling such ridiculous tales about Uncle Salazar?" Her mama could answer that easily. Her mama knew everything. _

_Rowena's lips pursed. "The students tell many tales about all of us. Which story are you referring to?" _

"_The one about the Chamber of Secrets," her daughter replied. _

_Rowena's shoulders stiffened. Her jaw clenched. "I see," she said coldly. "You mustn't listen to those rumors, Helena. They were created by people who know nothing about your uncle. They're just jealous and delusional, that's all. Now be a good girl and go to bed." Her tone allowed for no argument. _

_Sulking, the child curled up in her little cot. She tried to fall asleep, she really did, but her mind was too active to let her fall into slumber. Why was her mama so unhappy about the Chamber of Secrets? _

_Maybe, she thought, there really is something like that, she doubted that it was scare away all the Muggle-borns- Uncle Salazar was Muggle-born himself- but why would they keep it secret? Maybe it was an enormous library filled with hundreds and hundreds of books! Or maybe it was filled with lots and lots of treasure. Whatever it was, she wanted to see it. Then she could tell all the stupid people who had insulted Uncle Salazar that they were wrong and she was right, so HA! _

_She waited in bed, growing steadily more excited. Finally her mother crept out of the room. Helena followed. _

_Rowena knocked on the door to Uncle Salazar's chamber. No answer. She knocked again, more loudly this time. "Coming, coming," grumbled a voice within the room. Salazar opened the door. His hair and beard were disheveled, and he looked quite annoyed at being awakened. "What is it?" _

"_Helena was asking about the Chamber," Rowena announced. _

_Her fellow Founder was not impressed. "Laugh it off. She's what, six? Unless you overreacted, she'll forget about it by morning." _

_Helena could not see her mother, but she knew that Rowena's cheeks had pinked. "It isn't just Helena. The students have been gossiping about our Chamber for days. How did they find out?" _

"_They probably overheard two of us talking," Slytherin replied. _

_The eavesdropper's eyes widened. How many people were involved with this mysterious Chamber of Secrets? If Uncle Salazar and her mama were part of it, then so were Aunt Helga and Uncle Godric. Who else? Could some of the Founders' other children be involved? Maybe some of the students had a hand? That strange girl in green who had followed Uncle Salazar around for a single day before vanishing? The local Muggle lord, could he have had a part? _

"_Just ignore them, Rowena," Slytherin continued. They'll move on within the fortnight." _

"_And if they search for it? I know my daughter, Salazar. She will seek it out." _

"_She's six," he repeated patiently. "Do you honestly think that a six-year-old is going to find it?" _

"_And what of the students?" Ravenclaw wasn't going to give up quite so easily. _

_Her fellow Founder snorted. "Do you honestly think they can find it? And if they do, we can just feed the little snoop to Godric's kraken." _

"_Salazar!" _

…_The Giant Squid was a kraken? _

"_You're overreacting," the Parselmouth repeated. "They'll forget about it in a few days. If we ignore them, it will turn into nothing more than one of those tales older students use to frighten first years." _

"Hello?"

Mark Potter's voice startled the Gray Lady out of her reverie. Blushing silver, she returned to the present. "My apologies, young one," she murmured. "I was simply remembering."

The Boy-Who-Had-Defeated-Death was thrilled. "So you know where it is, then?"

"No," the ghost sighed, "I do not. All I know is that it must be in one of the most ancient portions of the castle."

"Could you help me find it?" the young Gryffindor demanded. "Because I need to find it. Hagrid told me that whatever's in it has killed people."

Only one person, Helena knew, but that was more than enough.

But her mother had been in on the secret. Surely Rowena wouldn't condone anything that would hurt one of her students? She hadn't been quite as motherly as Helga (who had also known the truth about the mysterious chamber), but she would never have let anything dangerous near her school.

But things changed over time. Perhaps whatever they had hidden away had been benign once, but it had still killed an innocent girl. Perhaps the march of years had driven it mad- Merlin knew that even she, daughter of Ravenclaw the Wise, had felt the creeping fingers of insanity assault her own mind.

Yes. Whatever beast or being the chamber hid had to die.

"I don't know where the Chamber of Secrets is," she murmured, "but perhaps I can still be of assistance. Have you heard of Moaning Myrtle?"

The child who had brought Death itself to heel shook his head. Helena hadn't expected him to know her; the castle's youngest ghost tended to keep to herself. And the fact that she haunted a _girls' _lavatory didn't help.

"Moaning Myrtle is the ghost of a student who died when the chamber was last opened," Helena explained. "Perhaps she could lend you a hand. However, Myrtle is… temperamental. Don't be surprised if she refuses to aid you."

"She'll help me," Mark proclaimed confidently.

The Gray Lady led the Boy-Who-Lived to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. His eyes widened when he saw where they were going. "That's a girls' loo."

"It is indeed," Helena sighed. "Myrtle died here. She haunts one of the toilets."

"…Okay." He seemed to be having second thoughts. "She's not… _crazy,_ is she?"

The ghost didn't answer, which was answer enough. She floated through the door. "Myrtle? Are you home?"

Sniffles sounded from one of the stalls. Wonderful. It seemed that the girl ghost was in one of her moods. "What do you want?" she whined.

"I would like you to meet a friend of mine," the elder spirit replied.

"You brought someone to laugh at me?" Myrtle stuck her head through the stall. "Yes, let's all laugh at Myrtle. Ugly Myrtle, stupid Myrtle-"

"Of course not," Helena protested. "Have I ever done anything like that to you, Myrtle? Mark Potter is very enthusiastic about meeting you."

She hadn't expected her words to have any effect. But it did. The younger ghost's crying stopped. Her eyes grew very wide. "Potter? Potter, you say?"

Helena fought back a laugh. Well, well. It seemed that even Moaning Myrtle had heard of the Boy-Who-Lived, who had saved them all from the wrath of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

"That's right." Mark swaggered forward, grinning. "Mark Potter, vanquisher of Dark Lords extraordinaire, at your service." He bowed slightly.

"You're Harry's brother!" she squealed.

Harry? Who in the world was Harry? Helena had never heard of him, nor had she known that the defeater of Death had any siblings. And how in the world had this Harry managed to make Myrtle _smile_? He must be a worker of miracles, just like the other Potter. In fact, making Myrtle this happy might be even more of an accomplishment than surviving the Killing Curse.

Mark's smile had frozen. "Ah, yes, I do have a brother."

"How's he doing?" Myrtle demanded. "I haven't seen him for weeks- he's been too busy to come and visit."

The Gryffindor didn't quite know how to react to that. He settled on, "Well, it is almost time for exams."

"Yes," Myrtle agreed, still unnaturally chipper, "but Harry's so smart, and so generous and sweet. He must be helping other people. Is he helping you?"

The Gray Lady fought back a most unladylike giggle. It was quite rude to laugh at the Boy-Who-Lived- but that face!

"Er, yes," the nonplussed student replied. "He has that better than Binns thing and all. But I was wondering, do you know anything about the Chamber of Secrets?"

Myrtle's abnormally happy expression fell. "Yes, I know about the Chamber of Secrets."

Mark waited, but the ghost girl remained silent. His jaw clenched. She blinked at him. Helena interceded before things could get ugly. "Could you tell us about it, then, please?"

"I could." But that was all she said.

"Then why don't you?" snapped Mark.

"Why do you want to know about the Chamber?" the ghost demanded.

"So I can kill the monster inside it, that's why," the young Gryffindor proclaimed. Then, very quickly, "You know, so I can avenge your death, and all."

The ghost's face lit up. "You'd do that for me? Oh, you're just as wonderful as Harry!"

The boy's expression froze, but neither spirit noticed. Myrtle was too intent on relaying the tale of her death, and Helena was too busy listening. How, she wondered, would Salazar react if he knew what his beast had done?

"I had had an awful day," the girl began, "so I came in here to cry. Olive Hornby- she was an awful, awful girl- she had been making fun of my glasses, and the other girls were all laughing at me. So there I was, lamenting in this very stall, when I heard a voice speaking in some strange language. But," she leaned forward conspiratorially, "it was a _boy's_ voice."

Mark nodded impatiently. "What happened next?"

The ghost girl's lips pursed; she evidently had expected more of a reaction. "I was going to go out and confront him, because boys don't belong in the girls' bathroom, but when I opened the door…." She trailed off into what was supposed to be a dramatic pause but was really only filled with the force of Mark's rising irritation.

"Then what?" he demanded.

Myrtle glared. "I'm telling you the story of my death!" she cried. "The most personal story of my entire existence! Don't you care about the psychological trauma this is causing me?" Tears filled her eyes. The dam was about to burst. Once it did, no force on Earth could make the spirit tell Mark the rest of the story.

Helena hurried to intervene. "He's just very eager to avenge your death, that's all. You know how heroes are."

"What she said," the Gryffindor agreed. "But I need to know what kind of creature is down there so I can figure out how to stop it. Then I'll bring its head up here and show you."

Myrtle tilted her head, considering.

"And I'll make sure," the boy continued, "that everyone knows I've done this to avenge the beautiful Myrtle!"

Helena blanched. There was _no way_ that Myrtle would fall for that. Mark Potter might be a miracle worker, but he was definitely not a good liar. Myrtle would think that he was being sarcastic, not that he was trying too hard to wheedle the information out of her. Then she would be inconsolable for days, and once she recovered, she would probably dedicate her afterlife to petty revenge against the Boy-Who-Lived and the Gray Lady.

But she simply smiled and blushed. The tears halted. "Really?"

"Yeah." Mark was nodding far too quickly, but Myrtle didn't seem to notice. Perhaps it was because she hadn't had much human contact for a long, long time. Perhaps it was because she trusted the other Potter implicitly. Or perhaps it was due to something else that Helena didn't know about.

Whatever the reason, the spirit went right on with her narrative. "I saw a pair of big, yellow eyes, and then there was this sort of floating feeling…. And I _died._"

"Yellow eyes?" Mark parroted. "Were they slit down the center like a snake's?"

But that was more than enough to set Myrtle off. "You don't care at all, do you!" she shrieked. "You just want your own glory! You are _nothing _like Harry!" She fled into her toilet.

"Hey!" Mark jerked open the door of the stall. "You need to tell me where it came from!"

"NO!" the girl shrieked. Her toilet had already begun to overflow. It probably wouldn't dry up for days. "GO AWAY!"

Helena tried to reason with her. "Myrtle, he simply wants to avenge you. That's all. That's why he wants to know- he needs to learn about the creature's appearance so he knows how to combat it. That is his only desire."

"Is not," the other ghost protested. "He's just a jerk who wants his own glory! He doesn't care about me, he doesn't care about my death, he- he- he-" But here she became incoherent.

Mark scowled at the ghost girl's stall. The expression emphasized the thickness of his cheeks, the redness of his complexion. His face was very good at smiling and dazzling, but when it darkened, his entire demeanor changed- and not for the better.

The boy stalked out of the bathroom, trailed by Helena Ravenclaw. He ignored his companion, muttering under his breath about stupid ghosts.

Helena faded into invisibility- Mark obviously had no interest in speaking with her now, but perhaps he would once he had calmed down.

Yellow eyes made her think of the strange girl in green, the one she had seen only a few times but who had been amazingly close to the Founders, especially Salazar. What was her name again? Sarah? No, it was something different, something exotic and strange.

She shook her head, chasing away the old ugly thoughts. What did the girl's name matter? She was dead; she must have been dead for nine hundred years or more.

The Boy-Who-Lived stalked into the Gryffindor Common Room, up the steps to the boys' dormitory, and into a homey red bedroom. Three other boys were waiting there, idling on their beds. Helena inspected their faces, wondering if one of these was Mark's brother.

The first, a dark-skinned youth, looked up from his sketchpad and asked, "How'd it go?"

"The Gray Lady didn't know anything," his friend groaned, collapsing onto his bed. "She brought me to some barmy ghost girl named Moaning Myrtle. She haunts a _toilet_, for Merlin's sake."

"A _toilet?_" echoed a gangly boy with red hair.

"A toilet," Mark confirmed.

"So why'd the Gray Lady bring you to her?" asked a sandy-haired youth. "She's supposed to be smarter than that."

Helena scowled.

"The thing in the Chamber killed her," Mark explained. "Myrtle, I mean, not the Gray Lady. I think it's a basilisk- sure sounded like one."

A _basilisk?_ Why in Merlin's name had Salazar hidden a _basilisk _in the school? And why had her mother and the other Founders gone along with it? It didn't make any sense!

But Rowena Ravenclaw _always_ made sense. Always. She had been a meticulous planner, the kind of person who would jot down every last detail before actually doing anything. There was no way she had put a _giant poisonous snake with eyes that killed people_ beneath a building full of _schoolchildren _without a very, very good reason.

What that reason might be, though, her daughter had no idea.

"Why's it have to be a basilisk?" the Boy-Who-Lived whined, snapping Helena out of her reverie. "I hate snakes. Not that I won't kill it or anything," he hastened to add, "but I really don't like them. They're like little legless mutants."

His friends chorused their agreement. "The two-legged ones are even worse," the redhead muttered.

Helena winced. She had grown used to the rivalry of the Houses, but here and now, with memories of her life so fresh in her mind, she didn't want to think about it. How would Salazar and Godric react to this unrelenting hate?

"Did Myrtle know where the Chamber of Secrets was?" asked the blond.

"No," Mark grumbled, "because that'd be too convenient." He related the story Myrtle had told him and Helena in a high-pitched, rather squeaky voice.

"So the Chamber of Secrets is in the bathroom?" exclaimed the black boy.

"What?" Mark didn't understand. "I never said that."

"No." The black boy shook his head. "What I mean is, her death seems like an accident. Why would the Heir of Slytherin go into a girls' loo if the bathroom didn't have something to do with the Chamber? Seems kind of stupid, doesn't it?"

"You're right!" the Boy-Who-Lived yelled, jerking upright on his bed. He beamed. "We know where the Chamber is and what kind of monster I'll be facing. Watch out, snakey, cause here I come!"

* * *

><p>Yes, next chapter is the break-in scene.<p>

There's a poll up on my profile about what Blaise's Animagus form should be. I'm also accepting suggestions for it in the form of PMs.

-Antares


	14. Breaking and Entering

_His soul thou canst not have; therefore be gone. –Richard III, _I.2.49

A werewolf on the run from the law, an anthropomorphized basilisk, a garden snake, and a Parselmouth disguised by Fae magic were preparing to break into the Ministry of Magic…. It sounded like the start of a "met in a bar" joke.

But it wasn't. The fours' faces were tight and drawn, deadly serious. They knew that the future of an entire race depended on what they did tonight. They knew that they might have only one chance- who knew what the Ministry would do if they failed and the government discovered it? At the very least, they would move the Chalice somewhere less easy to invade. At the worst, they would learn what the silver cup could do- and destroy it.

"Ready?" Pollux asked.

Tyr grunted, every inch of him a wolf.

Merlin, how he _loathed_ using a child like this… but what choice did he have? He _had_ to free his people. And Harry was right- he did have the Dark Lord's memories. He was far older than his twelve (almost thirteen) years implied.

His wolf-self's feelings were a great deal simpler. It did not like that the raven was in danger, but it understood that pack leaders were first in the hunt. And what a quarry they were hunting! It lurked beneath the human façade, almost dancing with anticipation. Soon the pain would end; soon they would be one in truth.

_Go back to sleep,_ the human Tyr ordered. _This is a hunt for wit and reason, not raw instinct and power. _

Without the moon's strength, the wolf had no choice but to obey. It retreated to the depths of its counterpart's mind, waiting.

"You're sure you'll be okay?" asked Pallas.

Hermione Granger, her true name was. It hadn't been difficult to match Harry's friends with Pollux's companions. Daphne Greengrass/ Bianca Frost had given him a bit of trouble, but that had been quickly resolved by a few innocent questions to Remus.

The bushy-haired Ravenclaw was the oldest of Harry's little gang (excepting Saysa, of course). She was a ripe old thirteen years and would turn fourteen on September 17. Thirteen. Five children, two merely twelve, and the others thirteen, were dealing with this. Five prepubescent students with the world on their shoulders, facing danger in the eye; what a frightening thought.

Merlin and Morgana, he hated this.

"We'll be fine," Pollux assured her. "Relax, Pallas."

Sisith hissed something that made the young witch smile. "Right as always," she admitted. "But you will be careful, won't you?"

"Not to use caution is the height of foolishness," Saysa assured her. "Do you really think we are fools?"

"They'll be fine," Alexander agreed.

Neville Longbottom. Born a day before Harry and Mark Potter, making him the second youngest among the five. Thought to be a Squib for most of his life. Superbly gifted in Herbology, dismal at Potions- probably the fault of his professor.

Tyr glanced at the other two. Apollo Peverell and Bianca Frost- Blaise Zabini and Daphne Greengrass- were the calmest of the lot, probably due to their Slytherin upbringing. They knew that they had planned and predicted as much as they possibly could, so there was nothing left to do but to actually _do _it.

"Let's go," he said. If he didn't interrupt now, who knew how long the delay would last?

"Right," Pollux agreed, his voice hard. "Let's go."

No one noticed as they Apparated into the Ministry. Tyr and Saysa had been glamored to hide their most distinctive traits. Sisith hid in Pollux's pocket. The Parselmouth himself had done nothing to hide Pollux's tall form. Why should he? His rescue of the kidnapped purebloods back in January was famous, but few people knew his face or name.

It was a bit unusual for people to be Apparating into the building at this time in the evening, but no one cared enough to comment. They didn't realize how truly pathetic their security was, thinking themselves safe behind the full might of the Ministry.

As they approached the pathetic security checkpoint, they squabbled about how "Paul" had been stupid to leave his paperwork in the office and they were going to be late to dinner. "Paul" snapped back at "Sarah" and "Dad" that he'd had a long day, so could they please quit harping on him?

The bored security wizard took their wands (Saysa used Daphne's spare. Tyr, not wanting to find out if his wand was on the Wanted list, used Apollo's spare). He inspected them briefly before handing them back. "We close at nine," he mumbled.

"I know, I know," Pollux grumbled. "C'mon, Dad, Sarah."

The elevator was almost empty. It was after eight, almost time to close up the building, and most evening employees were in their offices trying to finish up the day's work.

Unspeakables and some other wizards got off at five. Other departments (for instance, the Aurors) had two shifts- seven to three and one to nine. No one was entirely certain why the shifts had two hours of overlap, but they weren't complaining. Overlap helped them get more work done and catch up with their friends.

Due to the Unspeakables' hours, the bottom floor was completely deserted. Pollux, Tyr, and Saysa didn't bother to hide themselves as they approached the door to the Department of Mysteries. Even the serpent-woman's glamor had been removed. It hurt her eyes, and she needed to use her serpent sight.

Sisith crawled out of his friend's clothing. The Parselmouth murmured spells under his breath, waving Voldemort's wand. A silver X appeared on the door to the storage area. Once the portal had been marked, he closed the exit.

The room spun around them, black and a streak of silver. Tyr grimaced. His stomach roiled.

The spinning doors slowed to a halt. Without missing a beat, Pollux pushed the X-marked portal open. _"Lumos,_" he incanted. His wand-tip lit up with enough intensity to brighten the entire room.

Sisith led the way. The others had memorized the route, but they all reasoned that it was better to follow someone who had actually lived there.

Tyr's wolf had awakened again. It prowled his skull, watching through his eyes. The human didn't protest. As long as his animal self didn't try to interfere, putting it back to sleep was more trouble than it was worth.

The storage area was filled with everything from rubbish to rubies- three huge rubies set in a band of gold that emitted a low humming noise. When Saysa saw them, she shuddered slightly and edged away. No one asked what her serpent sight had told her about the gems.

They entered the room containing the Chalice of the Moon with a distinct feeling of anticlimax. They had known, intellectually at least, that they weren't likely to be interrupted, but still….

The wolf danced with excitement in Tyr's mind. The man was almost tempted to join it.

Two crescents shined on the handle, lunar phases blazed across the brim. Delicate carvings of plants were carved into the sides. Even to Tyr's mundane eyes, the silver goblet seemed to emanate with moonlight. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Saysa averted her gaze. Her golden eyes were watering. "I'm sorry," she apologized, "but looking at that… is like looking into the sun." She blinked several times, apparently deactivating her serpent sight, and turned back. "I do not believe that there were any extraneous enchantments on it."

Tyr grit his teeth. The wolf begged him to go forward, to drink of the cup and be cured. It bubbled and boiled beneath his skin, fighting its restraints with all its strength. All the werewolf's self-control was absorbed in keeping his animal self under wraps.

Pollux murmured several spells. They shot from the tip of Voldemort's wand onto the silvery cup. He cocked his head slightly, reading the results. "It doesn't have any tracking or alarm spells that Voldemort knows about." But he did not move.

Sisith, who had been lying near his feet, reared up to hiss at him. Pollux listened with a rueful grin. "You're right. I _am_ being paranoid."

He strode forward and gripped the Chalice of the Moon.

The wolf howled in exultation. _Yes, yes, yes, y- NO!_

The animal tore through Tyr's mental defenses, seizing control of their shared body. The werewolf's mind bounced against the walls of his skull. He was nothing but a viewer, helpless and stunned.

The wolf barreled into Pollux, knocking him over. The two males went flying into a pile of rubbish.

An odd thing happened when Tyr's body made contact with Pollux's. His muscles locked up, leaving him utterly paralyzed. Only his momentum kept them flying forward.

As they fell through the room, the Chalice of the Moon went flying from the younger wizard's hand.

"What the _bloody_-"

A poison-orange curse flamed through the air where Pollux's head had been half a second before. It collided with yet another heap of unidentified items.

The Imperius Curse.

_Protect the raven,_ the wolf snarled.

The animal relinquished control of its body. It knew that this was a fight for men and serpents- and that it couldn't fight this adversary. It would take too much energy to maintain control of the body on a waxing-moon night.

Tyr rolled, just barely avoiding another curse. Had it hit Harry? No, thank Merlin, he had dodged too.

Saysa grappled with something invisible in the center of the room. Her pupils were mere black lines, her fangs bared in a hiss of fury. She jerked her head, trying to bite, but the _crack!_ of Apparition interrupted her.

The basilisk's body went flying, crashing into the wall. She collapsed. Her form seemed to ripple, just as it did whenever she shape-changed.

Had Tyr been thinking of anything other than protecting Harry from their invisible assailant, he would have worried about what would happen if she reverted. This room wasn't large enough to hold a sixty-plus-foot basilisk.

Something cold washed down his spine. He started, wondering why he wasn't dead yet. Then he realized that it had been a Disillusionment Charm- a powerful one, too.

Items clanged together, creating a cacophonous din. Pollux's voice breathed into Tyr's ear. "Sisith can see him. He can get to him. We need to distract him."

There were a thousand ways Tyr could have kept the wizard busy. He might not have had any formal magical schooling, but he knew how to wield a wand.

But that was when the unconscious Saysa's ripples turned into actual physiological changes. Most of those changes were unimportant, but one was not.

She grew. Five feet tall and sixty feet long, she expanded into the form a giant green-scaled snake.

Tyr grabbed at Pollux's cloak, dragged him away from the transforming serpent. A tiny part of him wondered if Sisith was all right- the snarky snake had grown on him- but he squashed the concern. Sisith was fine. He could find someplace to hide; he was small enough to avoid being crushed to death. He and Harry, though, were not.

"_Parvus!" _a man's voice bellowed. Tyr's blood ran cold. He knew that voice; he had spoken with it many times about letting more werewolves into Hogwarts, maybe even starting up an adult education program.

Albus Dumbledore.

"SAYSA!" Harry yelled. Footsteps pounded against the floor. How had he gotten into the room? Oh, wait- of course. Dumbledore had cast a shrinking spell.

The implications thundered through him like a flash flood. Great Merlin, he was taking Saysa!

But he would not do so without a fight. Pollux lacked the serpent sight, but he made up for it by blasting everything and everything. Red spells, green hexes, blue incantations, yellow, brown, black, white…. Tyr couldn't identify half of them.

But the young Parselmouth wasn't the only wizard in the room. The invisible Dumbledore returned fire: red, purple, and magenta, with the occasional flash of green. He had transfigured something into a slavering mastiff, which charged at Harry whenever it caught his scent. The wizard was forced to shoot curses at the immense hound, giving his location away.

Tyr had no idea what to do. Dumbledore was moving too quickly for him to hit. He couldn't see Saysa or Sisith- perhaps they'd already been captured. So he did the only thing he could do and cast a _finite incantatem _at the mastiff. It yelped once before reverting to its natural form.

The Chalice of the Moon hit the ground with a _ping._

For a brief, eternal moment, the flurry of spells stopped. Tyr and Harry focused on the silver cup. Dumbledore, it seemed, had turned his attention to the newcomer, because he loosed an ugly green curse in the werewolf's direction.

Tyr dove to the floor, rolled over debris. The Chalice was close, so close-

"_Accio!"_

The second it reached his hand, his body clenched up. He was paralyzed, unable to move.

And the cup was visible, a dead giveaway to his location.

"_Protego!_" Pollux roared in fury, and just in time. Dumbledore's curse rebounded off his hastily erected shield.

Harry must have thrown all his might into maintaining his shield. He ran to Tyr. One hand fumbled in his pockets. It clenched around a green ring in the shape of an ouroboros.

He dropped the ring onto Tyr's chest. He spoke in Parseltongue, but the werewolf knew exactly what he was saying: **"Ad insulam fundatorum!**"

And Tyr was gone.

* * *

><p>Saysa. He had to get Saysa. Saysa and Sisith, two of his first and only friends. But how could he when his adversary was Albus Dumbledore, the most powerful wizard alive?<p>

At least Tyr was safe; that was some comfort.

His magic was beginning to tire. He was powerful, yes, but he was still only a child, and a great deal less powerful than Dumbledore. There _was_ a reason that Voldemort feared him.

He took a leaf out of his enemy's book and transfigured the first thing he found into a poisonous serpent. **"The old man harmed a basilisk,**" he explained between firing spells.

"**A King of Serpents?"** The snake was enraged. **"He shall die for that!"** It charged.

The Killing Curse put a quick end to its fury.

_Crack!_

The noise echoed throughout the room. Harry, wand at the ready, kept firing spells. Hopefully at least one would hit him when he rematerialized.

But Dumbledore did not return fire.

Harry slowed his barrage. Panting softly, he scanned the room. Nothing. No telltale blurs, no strange shadows… no stripe of green.

His heart constricted.

"**Sisith?**" he called softly. **"Saysa?"**

No response, so he called again. This time, the black garden snake hissed a reply. **"Over here."**

The snake wasn't entirely certain how he had been wounded, but he was unable to move. Three of his ribs ached. Harry touched his head very gently. **"I'm going to stun you, okay? I'll wake you up when we're back at the Isle." **

The serpent nodded weakly. **"What happened to Saysa and Tyr?" **he worried.

"**Tyr is fine, and I'm sure that Saysa is around here somewhere. I think she hit her head pretty hard, and then Dumbledore shrank her. I just have to find her.**"

Sisith did not seem convinced, but he allowed Harry to put him to sleep.

The Parselmouth searched as quickly and thoroughly as he could. He kept his ears peeled- who knew who had heard the fight?

But the only serpent he found was a golden armband. Roman, he thought, but he didn't know enough about the history of jewelry to say for sure.

Should he go through the room again? He wondered, nervously fingering the thin gold. Or perhaps she had been knocked into another chamber. Who knew what all those spells had done?

The other possibility, that she had been captured, he refused to contemplate.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Harry's grip tightened on the armband.

A trio of Aurors entered the room. The Parselmouth held his breath. His heart thudded in his ears.

Maybe they were incompetent idiots. They were Ministry employees, after all. Idiocy was in the job description.

"_Hominem revelio,_" intoned the lead Auror, a handsome black man.

Harry had no choice. He spun on his heel and Disapparated.

Or at least, he tried. It seemed that the Aurors had erected anti-Apparition wards. How on earth had he gotten the only competent ones in the entire building?

The black Auror hurled a hex at him. Muscles whining in protest, he rolled aside.

Red light beamed from his wand, but the Auror dodged the Stunner easily. It hit one of the other wizards, a beefy blond. He collapsed.

The black Auror hurled spells at his enemy. He was good; he knew which incantations could get past _protego _and which were useless against it. Harry switched his shield type to the Silver Barricade. This spell was stronger, but it took up a great deal more energy.

He was already tired, and the Silver Barricade wasn't helping. It kept him safe, yes, but it also kept him trapped. And while he was maintaining his shield, he couldn't use any offensive spells. His wand was already busy; he couldn't-

Wait a minute, he was wrong, no, not _his_ wand. _Voldemort's _wand was busy. _His _wand was not.

Harry smirked, dug a stick of holly from his pocket. Timing would be everything.

_Stupefy,_ he thought, and dropped the Silver Barricade.

He had never used two wands at once before, not when they were casting different spells. Had he been less stressed, less filled with desperate adrenaline, he never would have succeeded. But his fear gave him focus.

The Stunning Spell hit the black Auror square in the chest. His expression changed to almost comical surprise as he collapsed to the floor.

Harry didn't stick around for the third Auror, the one who was still conscious, to figure out that a simple _ennervate_ would restore his comrades. He sent another Stunner after the only remaining threat and hightailed it.

Fortunately, those three Aurors had only been the advance guard. The Ministry knew that something was wrong, and it had sent a trio of scouts to find out what. They hadn't expected that a single unknown wizard could defeat three highly trained Aurors.

The entire Department of Mysteries was covered in anti-Portkey and anti-Apparition wards. The part of Harry that wasn't panicking noted that the Aurors- or, more likely, the black Auror- had thought this through. They had blocked his escape before going in to confront him.

Too bad they hadn't gotten the anti-Apparition wards up before Dumbledore left.

Dumbledore… his heart constricted. Dumbledore had Saysa. Great Merlin, Dumbledore had Saysa.

He forced the awful realization away. He would help Saysa, yes, but first he had to help himself. He couldn't do anything for her if he was trapped by the Ministry.

Besides, that would be _embarrassing._

He darted into the spinning entryway, marked the door he needed with a silver X. The room revolved, faster and faster, just as it had when he and Saysa and Tyr came here earlier. They had been rested then, and optimistic, despite the knowledge that something could easily go wrong.

The doors slowed, halted. Harry ducked through the marked portal- right into another tiny contingent of Aurors, who had grown worried about their comrades' lack of response.

The Auror he had collided with staggered backwards. She swore violently. Harry was tempted to join in, but he had better things to do. Besides, he didn't want to give them anything that would let them identify him. He was still Disillusioned to the point of invisibility, but if he spoke, they would know his voice. It probably wouldn't do them much good, but it was always better to be safe than sorry.

He spun, silent as a snake-

"Get him!" someone shrieked.

-but it was too late. Pollux Ophion Riddle was gone.

* * *

><p>Yes, the black Auror was Kingsley. It's just Harry's luck to get the only competent one in the entire Ministry.<p>

"Parvus" is Latin for small.

This absurdly fast update is due to my wonderful beta Tetsurga. Chapter 15 will be up within the month.

-Antares


	15. Winning but Losing

_The miserable have no other medicine _

_But only hope. –Measure for Measure _III.1.2-3

Saysa's head hurt.

That was the first thing she became aware of: dull, ever-present pain. Next she realized that she was in her serpent form. Something seemed wrong about that- hadn't she been a woman before? But her head hurt too much to concentrate.

No, no. There WAS something wrong; she just didn't know what. Something about her head, and her shape, and her destiny.

Why did her head hurt? She struggled to remember. She had gone to the Ministry, she and Tyr and Harry and Sisith. They had been going after the Chalice of the Moon. There had been a room full of random items, most of which were dull to her enchanted eyes. Others, though, others had glowed. And the Chalice had glowed most brightly of all.

It had been too bright. It had hurt her eyes. Was that why her head hurt? That must be it, but it felt wrong.

No, she had returned to normal sight, and her eye ache had lessened immediately. And then Harry-as-Pollux had approached the cup and taken it, and Tyr had charged him….

The ache in her skull faded into insignificance.

They had been attacked. Someone had attacked them, and she had been knocked unconscious. But had they won? Was she safe and sound back in her Chamber, or had the attacker stolen her from under Harry's nose?

She opened her eyes. Sense returned, and she snapped them shut. What if someone had been watching her and they had made eye contact? What if her carelessness had killed someone?

Then she realized what she had seen. Cautiously, the basilisk peeked again.

She was blindfolded. Someone had tied a swath of dark cloth around her head. It covered her eyes completely and tied her jaw shut.

Who did that? She wondered, uncoiling… or trying to. She couldn't move. She could blink, but the rest of her body was paralyzed.

Panic overwhelmed rational thought. Harry and the others would never do this; she _had _to have been captured. Captured, taken hostage, kidnapped, bound, stolen….

She struggled vainly against the hex which had paralyzed her, but she was stuck. The spell's caster was powerful, so powerful that not even a highly magical creature could break through.

Had Saysa been thinking rationally, she might have attempted to shape-shift. The transformation may have allowed her to free herself, or at least to destroy the blindfold. Then she could have returned to her serpent form, kept her eyes open, and killed the one who had taken her hostage (assuming that the blindfold wasn't enchanted to expand with her- which it was. Still, it was worth a shot).

But she was _not_ thinking rationally. Her life had been quite sheltered, save for the horrible months under Tom Riddle's control. She had been protected since infancy, hidden in a secret chamber for centuries on end.

This was the first time in her life that Saysa had been in true danger, and she was not handling it well. That January she had been too full of hate and rage to be afraid, and the possessed Lucius Malfoy had been so outmatched that she hadn't had any reason to fear him.

But now she was bound, deprived of her natural weapons, away from her comrades, and without any knowledge of her situation. And her head hurt.

After what seemed like an eternity but was really only a few minutes, she gave up. The spell obviously wasn't going to break anytime soon, and struggling against it only made her more frightened.

So she waited for another eternity until footsteps echoed around the room.

Dread surged. She tried to remain hopeful, it _might_ be Harry or Hermione or one of the others, come here to rescue her but the basilisk knew in her bones that it was not.

"Awake, I see," commented a light male voice. He sounded old. His tone was carefully light, but that lightness did little to hide the steel within.

How had he known that she was conscious? She obviously hadn't moved. It must be some kind of enchantment that had alerted him to her waking.

All pretenses of lightness dropped out of the voice. "We are going to have a talk, Madam Saysa. You can either take on human form of your own will. Yes, I know of that, or we can do this the hard way."

Saysa hesitated, torn between instinctive defiance and cold-blooded terror. Shape-changing (why hadn't she thought of that before?) felt like a betrayal, but it would keep her alive. Unless….

Unless she managed to destroy the blindfold, whoever had captured her (probably Albus Dumbledore, the Spider himself, but she couldn't be sure) probably didn't know that her eyes were magical in human form, too. She couldn't kill, but she was more than capable of paralyzing him.

Her escape plans hadn't taken her magically induced paralysis into account. The serpent had a vague, half-formed idea that maybe her captor's hex would disintegrate once she had neutralized him, but nothing definite.

She shifted into her human form. For some reason, her body felt like it was growing _bigger,_ not smaller. How had that happened?

But it didn't matter, because the blindfold grew with her. The serpent-woman's hope of escaping crumbled.

The second her transformation was finished, something shoved itself into her mouth. She tried to spit it back up, tried to force it out, but her mouth had been paralyzed along with the rest of her body.

The thing expelled three drops of warm, slimy liquid into her throat. It met no resistance as it flowed down into her belly- her gag reflex, too, had been neutralized. A wand (it felt tainted, somehow, and much older than she herself) ran itself over her face, removing the paralysis from everything above her neck.

A peculiar lassitude came over the basilisk, the potion inside her seemed to dull her mind.

"Why did you and your companions steal the silver goblet?" her captor demanded.

His words brought a smile to Saysa's lips. Harry and Tyr must have been successful, or he would have said 'try to steal.'

Her smile faded as words clogged her throat like vomit. The potion compelled her to speak, and it compelled her to speak the truth.

She tried to fight, swallowing hard as though the words were physical things that could be choked down, but it was futile. She HAD to speak. The potion wouldn't allow silence.

But the news that Harry and Tyr were safe (and they must know that she was gone, and were probably planning her rescue even now) had returned a great deal of Saysa's reason.

What were the odds that her captor was a Parselmouth?

"**The Chalice of the Moon cures lycanthropy,**" she announced. **"Tyr Ulfhednar was there bec**-**"**

_Pain. _Mind shattering, throat-tearing, sanity-ending PAIN. Her nerves were on fire; her bones melted, twisted, warped; her voice box shattered with the strength of her scream-

And then it was over. Saysa panted like a dog. Black spots burst in her mind. Her frozen muscles tried to twitch, to work off the awful memory of excruciating pain, but they could not.

"I ask you again: why did you and your companions steal the goblet?"

The vomit-words choked her throat. Saysa had two choices. She could answer in Parseltongue (or any form of archaic English or Gaelic), maintain her honor, and be rewarded with torture. Or she could answer in modern English, betray the purpose of her entire life, and save her own sorry hide from more pain.

"**The Chalice of-**"

The curse lasted longer this time. Pain devoured the world. White pain, hot pain, pain like knives on her nerves, pain and pain and pain and _pain_-

Relief, blessed relief. Still pain, yes, for it wouldn't be banished by the mere lifting of a curse, but this pain was bearable.

He can't torture me too long, she wildly assured herself. He needs me sane enough to answer. He can't torture me into beasthood. There are limits to what he can do. And Harry will come soon.

Good God, give me the strength to hold out until then. I beg of You, Lord, don't let me talk!

Three more times she was questioned- and three more times she answered in Parseltongue. She tried to revert to her natural form (why was it so small?), but her interrogator Transfigured her back.

He stopped when the Veritaserum wore off. There was no point in dosing her again, not when she held onto hope that her friends would save her. People could do anything; endure anything, when they had hope.

In a few days, when she had been starved and blinded and afraid and alone long enough for her hope to die, he would try again.

* * *

><p>HarryPollux's room on Founder's Isle was simple and homey: oak bookshelves, a cozy little bed, a small dresser with more books atop it, and a desk with a comfortable plush chair. It was the kind of room he had dreamed of as a child, when he and his brother had been crammed into a cupboard barely large enough for one boy.

Panting, chest heaving, he collapsed onto his bed. His eyes were wide and wild.

Intellectually, the Parselmouth knew that he had had no choice. Saysa had already been taken; Dumbledore had escaped with her before the anti-Apparition wards went up. She had been long-gone when he fled from the Department of Mysteries.

The knowledge did not make coping any easier.

Saysa was a friend, a guide, a guardian, the only adult figure he could trust without reservation. She was not a mother figure (not yet); that job belonged to the shade of Lily Potter, but… by Merlin, she had been family!

With a chill, Harry realized that he was already thinking of her in the past tense. _No!_ She was captured, not dead. Surely Dumbledore wouldn't kill her.

His shoulders shook. The wizard rolled onto his belly, buried his face in his hands.

Don't cry. This is not the time to cry. Think, Potter, _think!_

But he couldn't think, not until he cried.

Sobs tore through him. His hands clawed the mattress. Tears and snot soaked into the blankets.

Mark. Saysa. His destiny. Lily and James. Everything. But mostly Saysa, for her tragedy was still raw.

He never learned exactly how long he lay there, bawling like a baby, but the moon had climbed high into the sky by the time he finished.

The moon, the almost full moon. He grimaced, wondering how long he had left Tyr paralyzed and invisible. At least it was decently warm out.

The wizard jogged over to the Portkey point. He ran into Sirius on the way. The Animagus opened his mouth, looked once more at Pollux's face, and snapped it shut. He shifted into canine form and followed.

Now that Harry had seen the enchantment's effects, he knew what Dumbledore had done to the Chalice of the Moon. It was a curse so obscure that no one had bothered naming it, a curse which paralyzed all living flesh which made contact with the bewitched object. The curse spread through flesh like electricity spread through metal, so that if someone touched the poor fool holding the enchanted object, he too would be frozen. If the wizard was powerful enough, the curse could hold up to thirty people.

Fortunately, the curse was easy enough to counter. That was why Voldemort had never used it to guard his Horcruxes. Harry murmured a soft "_Finite incantatem_" (Why hadn't he thought of that before? His idiocy had gotten Saysa captured!) And helped Tyr up.

"Where is she?" were the werewolf's first words.

Harry hung his head. Tyr cursed.

"What happened?" yelped Sirius.

In a dull, tired voice, Harry related everything: his _stupidity_, his paralysis, how Tyr had saved him, how Saysa had been captured, and his desperate flight from the Aurors….

The other students, Remus, and Dudley were waiting in Tyr's cottage. They took one look at Harry's forlorn face and blanched. Pallas stood, stepped forward, stopped. "What-" She fell silent.

Pollux lacked the strength to tell his tale again, so Tyr narrated the whole sad sorry story.

"So you won, but you lost," Dudley observed.

The Muggle hadn't intended for his statement to be profound. He was just stating an observation. Wisdom from the mouth of a fool….

"We have to rescue her." Pallas's face was drawn and pale. She had been the first human Harry introduced to Saysa; they had spent hours talking about history and magic and philosophy. The two females, one ancient and the other so very young, were close as favorite aunt and niece.

"How?" Pollux erupted, flinging up his arms. "We don't even know where she is!"

"So we should sit around and do nothing?" sneered Apollo. "I expected better of you."

"Don't be like that," Alexander ordered.

"What, are you just gonna-"

"Apollo, Al, stop fight-"

"Now you want to sit around too?"

"Of course not!"

"He was just saying that we need to _find_ her first!" Al yelled. He clenched his fists. "No one said _anything_ about sitting around and doing nothing."

"Enough!" Bianca shrieked. Her classmates froze. "We won't achieve _anything_ by squabbling like bratty toddlers." She sucked in a deep breath, shoulders heaving with suppressed emotion. She hadn't known Saysa as long as the others, but that didn't mean she wasn't close to the serpent-woman. "We know that Dumbledore has her. Where would he hide her?"

"Hogwarts?" Alexander suggested meekly. "I… I don't think he has a house. I think he lives there full-time. And Hogwarts is pretty big." He shrugged helplessly.

"Doesn't he have a brother?" wondered Apollo. He seemed to have forgotten his earlier animosity towards the other male, for he turned to Alexander and asked, "What was the fellow's name again?"

"Aberforth," the Gryffindor replied.

"Yeah. Aberforth. Maybe he's in on it."

"He had a couple hidey-holes for the Order of the Phoenix," Remus remembered, "but they were just houses. People live there, so he probably isn't using them."

Sirius groaned. "I wish we still had the Marauder's Map. That'd be a fast way of checking Hogwarts. Most of it, anyway, I doubt that anyone knows the entire castle."

"Except Dumbledore," Pollux muttered. "But you're right, Padfoot. Do you have any idea where it might be?"

"It was confiscated late our seventh year," Remus answered. "We got careless one night- Filch caught us on our way back to the dorm. James managed to wipe the map clean, but Filch knew that it was magical."

"So it would be in his office, then?" asked Pallas.

"Bianca and I can get it," Apollo volunteered.

"I'll see if Aberforth knows anything," Pollux decided.

"Alexander and I could tell the centaurs and goblins what's happened," Pallas suggested, not wanting to sit around doing nothing. But she knew even as she said it that it was a bad idea.

"Tell them that the arbiter of the Treaty of the Wood was taken captive on my and Tyr's watch?" Pollux echoed. "No thanks. Until we get Saysa back, we can't tell them anything. We can't even tell them we managed to nick the Chalice." His jaw clicked shut as he realized what he had said.

They had lost, yes… but they had _won._ In the horror of Saysa's capture, he had forgotten that their mission was technically a success.

Everyone's eyes turned to the silver cup, which had cost so much; _too_ much, in Harry's opinion.

"Does it work?" Dudley demanded after a long moment of silence. "Because if it works, Tyr and Remus should drink it right away. Maybe their werewolf powers can help find Saysa." He shot a brief but nasty glare in Pollux's direction; it was clear whom he held responsible for the serpent-woman's capture.

"Tyr first," Remus decided. His hands trembled in excitement. "He risked more, did more, than me."

The elder werewolf leaned forward. "There's no point in delaying," he decreed roughly. "_Aguamenti._"

Water, clear and pure, gushed from his wand into the cup. It filled the silvery chalice almost to overflowing.

Very slowly, very solemnly, Tyr Ulfhednar raised the Chalice of the Moon to his lips. He drank deeply, draining the goblet.

The others waited breathlessly for some sign that the magic was working. They weren't entirely certain what to expect- a full-fledged transformation, perhaps, or some kind of magical light show. They didn't expect the room to remain silent and dim, for the light in Tyr's eyes to dull. But that is what happened.

Pallas buried her face in her hands.

"It'll be all right." Tyr's voice was not cut out for comforting people, nor was his personality. Still, he tried. "You'll save Saysa. And…." He paused, searched for a way to explain what he'd felt. "The chalice… something is missing. The magic is still there- I can _feel _it- but I can't _access _it."

"No," Remus moaned. "You're deluding yourself, Tyr. It's lost its powers."

Harry was almost ready to start crying again. Bad enough that Saysa had been captured; now the thing she'd been captured _for_ was defective? And even worse… if lycanthropy remained cursed, they wouldn't get allies from the other races. Without help from the goblins and veela and dwarves and all the others, they couldn't fulfill the prophecies. Without the prophecies, Saysa's life was meaningless.

Good Merlin. He'd managed to destroy both Saysa and her entire life's work in just a few minutes.

Tyr's mouth tightened. He re-cast the spell, shoved the water-filled cup into Remus's face. "Drink," the elder werewolf ordered.

"What's the point?" the younger hissed.

"_Drink_," Tyr repeated in the voice of an alpha.

Remus huffed heavily but accepted the goblet. He sipped. His eyes went wide. "Great Merlin!" he rasped. His knuckles tightened around the cup's stem. He gulped the rest greedily, literally _wolfing _it down.

When he had finished, his eyes glowed with new emotion. There was joy in his face, and hope, and despair. "Tyr's right," he announced without aplomb. "It's- it's like I'm _almost_ all the way to the top of the hill, _almost_ done with a race, but then it's like I fall and can't get to the end. The magic is so close to working, but-" He shook his head. "I can't explain it any better than that, but the Chalice still has its magic."

"It's a potion," Alexander breathed. He took hold of the cup, rolled it in his hands.

"That doesn't narrow it down much, though," Pollux lamented. And, more importantly, it didn't do anything about Saysa. "There are millions of potion ingredients that can be combined in millions of different ways. For now, we should focus on getting Saysa back before Dumbledore- does something that can't be fixed." He _wouldn't _kill her. He _wouldn't._ _Couldn't. _

"I like Saysa," Dudley agreed. "How soon can Apollo and Bianca get the map thingy?"

"Tomorrow," Bianca declared. "We can have it by lunch tomorrow."

"Maybe one of my Dreams will help us find her," Apollo suggested suddenly. He'd obviously only just thought of that.

Pallas tilted back her head. "I can try and research Dumbledore family properties," she sighed, "but I can't think of anything else that would help." She felt useless, worse than useless. "And if I can't find anything useful about Dumbledore, I can try to decode the lycanthropy potion."

"But you don't have to!" Alexander exclaimed.

The room turned to stare at him. The Prince of Flowers fidgeted. "Look at it," he ordered, brandishing the Chalice. "It's got leaves on it. Potions ingredients. They're all written on the goblet- hemp, boneset, adders tongue, aconite, parosela. They're right here."

The group peered closer. The tiny carvings on the double-crescent base loomed larger than life. Everyone had assumed that they were just symbolic decorations, not anything more significant. But if Alexander was right, these innocuous-looking traceries held the key to the werewolves' salvation.

"Can you get these ingredients?" Tyr demanded.

"I think so, yes," Alexander replied.

"Then do it," the werewolf ordered. "Sirius, you and I can try to figure out the exact proportions. Moony, you and Sirius should write down all Dumbledore's old safe houses and allies, anyplace he might be hiding Saysa."

The meeting adjourned fairly quickly after that. Everyone had their own task. Now they just had to fulfill them.

* * *

><p>*sniffles* Poor Saysa. Poor, poor Saysa. I feel so bad for doing this to you.<p>

So, on this pleasant note of torture and panic... Merry Christmas!

If you have a moment, please pop over to my profile and vote on the poll so I know what Blaise's Animagus form should be. Thanks.

-Antares


	16. Wolfsbane's Secret

_To do a great right, do a little wrong. _

_-Merchant of Venice IV.1.219 _

"Where in the world did you acquire that many Dungbombs?" Daphne wondered.

Blaise smirked. "Weasley twins," he explained. His comrade nodded. "That'll keep Filch busy for hours, don't you think?"

"Of course," she acknowledged, "but it does make me feel a bit redundant. You were quite capable of executing this plan on your own."

Her fellow Slytherin shrugged. "You're faster with finding things," he reminded her. "I'll stand guard, let you know if anyone else decides to raid Filch's office."

"I doubt they will."

"Yeah, but you can never be too careful. Especially not after yesterday." His lips pursed. He knew, intellectually at least, that Harry had had no reason to suspect that the Chalice of the Moon would somehow summon Dumbledore. But a tiny part of his mind insisted on blaming the poor Parselmouth. He tried to ignore it, but….

Daphne flinched. "Here we are," she murmured, slowing to a halt.

The Slytherins lingered for a few moments, waiting for a pair of fifth years to leave the hall. The second the older students were gone, Daphne took out her wand. _"Alohamora,_" she incanted. Waving her wand at Filch's door. Then, before anyone else could come through the hall and see them, she slipped inside the unguarded room.

Blaise hexed his book bag. It ripped at the seams, dropping his texts all over the floor. He dropped to his hands and knees. He listened hard. At the first hint of footsteps, he would begin gathering up his books.

He acted not a moment too soon, because a trio of Ravenclaws was already turning the corner. Grumbling to himself, Blaise grabbed at his texts, shoving them into a rough pile. "Bloody useless bag- Don't suppose any of you eagles know a strengthening charm for it?"

The lead Ravenclaw jumped. "Er, no," she replied. "Sorry." She increased her pace, wanting to get through the hall before Blaise asked for help picking up his scattered possessions.

The Slytherin grinned. "Works every time," he muttered, and scattered his books once more.

He had to repeat his performance three more times before Daphne slipped out of the office. The witch's face was tight.

"Nothing?" Blaise asked incredulously.

"Nothing," she confirmed. "I searched through his files twice, I even tried summoning it, but the Marauder's Map isn't there."

Blaise swore.

"Indeed," his primmer classmate agreed. She dropped to the floor, helped him gather up books. "Do you have any idea where it might be?"

"Maybe Filch burned it?" he suggested. "I don't know."

"I don't think he did," Daphne disagreed. "I obviously don't know him very well, but he seems to me like the kind of person who holds onto things. Also, when I was looking through his files, I noticed that he still has records from the late fifties. Why would he keep the records but not the contraband?"

Her friend felt sick. "You think Dumbledore has it?"

"I don't know," she confessed. "I do think that someone took it. Who it might be, though, I have no idea."

Blaise groaned. It looked like he'd spent half an hour on the floor and departed with ten Galleons for nothing. Stupid Weasleys with their overpriced- wait. D'you think the Weasley twins might have something to do with this?"

Daphne's jaw tightened. "It would explain their uncanny knowledge of the secret passages."

"And their equally uncanny ability to avoid Filch," Blaise mused. "And Snape, at least before the acromantulas tore off his arm and got him fired. Remind me to send them a thank-you gift."

"Focus, Blaise," his friend hissed. "If the Weasley twins have the Marauder's Map, we need to tell Neville. He's the only one of us with access to the Gryffindor dorms."

The thought of sending _Neville _to rob from Hogwarts' most notorious pranksters made Blaise blanch. The Gryffindor had grown up a lot over the past two years, but… it would be like sending fresh meat into the lion's den. If the poor kid was caught, he'd probably spend the next five years being changed into a canary at totally random intervals.

So, groping about his memories for a way to save poor Neville's hide, Blaise stumbled upon a solution. "How about, instead of sending one of our own on a kamikaze mission, we try that Summoning Charm Harry taught us?"

Daphne blushed. "Yes, that it a much better idea."

"What was the incantation again?" the wizard wondered.

"Let me do it," the witch ordered, wanting to reclaim at least a bit of her dignity.

"Go crazy," Blaise shrugged.

"The spell is _accio_," she lectured, waving her wand. _"Accio _Marauder's Map."

They waited, shoulders tense. For a while it seemed like nothing would happen, that Daphne's spell had failed or that the map was out of her magical range, but then an old piece of parchment whizzed down the corridor into the witch's waiting hand.

"I solemnly swear I am up to no good," she murmured.

Ink bloomed in the center of the page, spreading outward in thin, spidery lines. It traced the shape of the castle, the names of students and staff.

Blaise and Daphne lost no time. The scoured the enchanted parchment, heads together, desperately seeking a single five-letter name. But no matter how hard they searched, they couldn't find any mention of Saysa.

Frustrated, the two Slytherins searched for Dumbledore, thinking that perhaps his location might hint at- at _something. _They didn't know what. Perhaps, since Saysa was a basilisk and the Map had been designed for humans, she couldn't show up. Perhaps if they found Dumbledore somewhere strange, they could go to that place and rescue his hostage.

But the headmaster was seated in the Great Hall, in the sight of half of Hogwarts. They sincerely doubted that he had hauled his serpentine captive into the public eye.

"Should we keep the Map?" Blaise asked once they had given up hope.

"Let's bring it to the Isle," Daphne sighed. Her head sagged. "That should take it out of the Weasleys' range. This is Sirius and Remus's, so we aren't technically stealing it. Perhaps they can do something." But her tone was doubtful, and with good reason.

"You might have missed her," Sirius suggested. "It's easy enough to do. There are tons of names on this thing." He flicked his wand at the parchment. The names vanished. "Moony came up with this feature in our sixth year. He figured that if we ever needed to find each other quickly, this was the best way to do it."

He and the other two wizards searched the map until their eyes ached, but they saw no names, much less the name they were searching for.

Finally they were forced to concede defeat. Saysa, wherever she may be, was not in Hogwarts Castle.

* * *

><p>Aberforth Dumbledore didn't know what hit him. One minute, he'd been feeding his goats. The next, he'd awakened to find himself tied to a chair, a rag tied over his eyes, wand-less and helpless.<p>

But not, he quickly discovered, gagged. He cursed at the top of his lungs, too angry to be afraid.

"Sorry about this," said a male voice- and to the old man's shock, his captor seemed to mean it. Aberforth quieted. What kind of man would kidnap someone and then apologize for it?

When the man spoke next, his voice had hardened. "Where is Saysa?"

"Never heard of it," he snapped. "In other words, I have no bloody idea."

"The basilisk," the voice elaborated. "In human form, she's tall and pale with dark hair and slitted yellow eyes. As a snake, she's about sixty feet long and bright green."

Wonderful, he'd been kidnapped by a madman. "Everyone knows that Animagi can't become magical creatures," Aberforth pointed out. "And I still don't know what you're talking about."

"I thought you'd say that," the voice growled. The hairs on Aberforth's neck stiffened. For the first time, a tiny trickle of fear made its way up his spine. His captor was desperate, and desperate meant dangerous.

The blindfold burst into brilliant but heatless flames. The hostage yelped, instinctively jerking his head away from the light. The fire dimmed, but his vision remained dim. He blinked rapidly, trying to disperse the spots.

He could just barely make out a dark silhouette with a pale face. That was all.

Then his vision blurred for an entirely different reason. He found himself reliving the events of the past twenty-four hours: the pub-wide brawl he'd broken up last night, the sickly goat kid that was finally starting to put on weight, the new recipe he would add to the menu that night. Mundane things, easy to forget, replayed themselves in incredible detail.

Had Aberforth been closer to his brother, he might have recognized a Legilimency attack. But the Dumbledore siblings had been estranged over a century ago, and the younger boy had never been interested in the esoteric and exotic. He was a simple man, content to run his pub and exist on the sidelines. He had no knowledge of the Mind Arts.

Then, just as quickly as the barrage had begun, it was over. Aberforth was left gasping and sweating, trying to grasp what had happened to him.

"I'm sorry," his captor repeated quietly. It was filled with grief, both at what he'd been forced to do and at how he'd failed. "But Saysa's life is in danger. I couldn't take the risk that you might be lying, I had to… but necessity does not create morality. My deepest apologies, sir, for violating your mind, and I apologize once again for this." The blurred shape lifted its arm. "_Obliviate._"

* * *

><p><em>Hemp, boneset, adders tongue, aconite, parosela. Hemp, boneset, adders tongue, aconite, parosela. <em>

Neville repeated the ingredients in his mind. His lips moved soundlessly.

Aconite, monkshood, wolfsbane: a key ingredient in the Wolfsbane Potion, which kept werewolves tame throughout the full moon. It was probably the most important, the one that held the potion together.

Adders tongue, sometimes called serpents tongue. This herb, too, had lunar associations, and its name made Neville wonder. Serpents tongue, serpent-tongued, Parseltongue, Lightning Speaker….

Boneset. It was a healer, a soother of pain that appeared in several medicinal potions. It was particularly potent in healing curse-induced injuries. It could drive out the evil of lycanthropy's curse, cleanse it.

Hemp. The centaurs used it in their attempts to divine fate. It was a widespread plant, practical and tough.

And parosela. Neville was not entirely certain how the herb would contribute to the potion, but he _had _recognized its leaves. It would be the most difficult to acquire, but he could and would and had to do it.

The first four herbs grew in his greenhouse. They were easy enough to acquire; all he had to do was send to his Gran. _I think I might need these things for my Potions final,_ he'd written. _Please send them quick, it's only next week._

His grandmother would send them the second she received his letter. He suspected that she would send a truly ridiculous quantity of each herb- he had a history of messing up on potions and needing to start over again.

Parosela wasn't a great deal harder. It was probably carried in the Apothecary in Diagon Alley. A quick owl and a few Galleons, and he'd have everything he needed.

No, the problem wasn't acquiring the herbs. The problem was combining them into a potion.

Would any combination work? Neville doubted it. Potions were always very exact; a half-milliliter too much or too little, a quarter-turn in the wrong direction, a second too long between steps, and the concoction would be ruined.

Neville knew that he had no chance of solving the riddle himself, not with his horrendous grades. But that didn't stop his thoughts from wandering.

On an impulse, he wandered over to the library and grabbed a text on advanced potion making. The librarian gave him a nervous look when she saw the book he was browsing through. Even the cloistered Madame Pince, it seemed, had heard of his 'prowess' in potions.

"Are you actually going to _use_ that?" she demanded, almost comically horrified.

"No!" Neville yelped, throwing up his hands. "I just want to look at something, that's all."

She didn't move. Her arms folded, her eyes narrowed. Her entire demeanor screamed that she was watching him, and if he put _one toe_ out of line….

Neville gulped.

The Wolfsbane Potion had nearly a hundred fifty ingredients. The second years had never created anything with more than twenty-five parts.

He scanned the list, hunting for adders tongue, boneset, parosela, and hemp. He already knew that it contained aconite.

Wolfsbane was the twenty-ninth ingredient on the list. Hemp, the averter of evil, was one hundred sixteenth. The other three herbs were the last to be added, items one hundred forty-seven through one hundred forty-nine.

Neville backtracked, searching for quantities. His breathing quickened.

Eight grams of aconite. Two grams of hemp. One gram each of parosela, boneset, and adders tongue.

It couldn't be that simple, could it? Surely a potion of such power had ratios more complex than 8:2:1:1:1.

But, he supposed, they really didn't have a better starting point. Why not use these quantities for their first try? These weren't particularly active ingredients; they weren't likely to explode and kill everyone if combined in the wrong amounts. He should know. He'd certainly blown up enough cauldrons to get a feel for things like this.

The Gryffindor scrawled his findings on a spare piece of parchment. _Eight aconite, two hemp…._

Madame Pince didn't bother hiding her sigh of relief as he exited her domain. Even if he did use whatever he'd learned to create his most powerful explosion yet, there was no way it could harm her precious books. There was a reason she'd moved the library so far away from the Potions classroom.

The Prince of Flowers Portkeyed to Founder's Isle, heart thudding with excitement. He had the ridiculous desire to pump his fist in the air. _Don't be stupid, Neville,_ he chided himself. _You probably haven't found anything. Even if you have, you don't know how much water to- wait. Wasn't water an ingredient in the Wolfsbane Potion? _

He Portkeyed back, sweat broke out across his palms. He sprinted from their "Portkey point" in the Chamber of Secrets (they really needed to find a new one now that Saysa was missing. What if Dumbledore knew where the Chamber was? Not that Saysa would ever voluntarily give that up, but what if she was drugged with Veritaserum?) Neville went to the library once again.

Madame Pince, who had been inspecting the potions text he'd been reading, started. "Back already?" she demanded. She clutched the book closer as though trying to protect it.

Neville nodded. Despite his sprint, he wasn't out of breath at all. "I just have to look at one more thing, please," he assured her. "Then I'll leave. I won't darken your doorstep until next year, promise."

"Why the sudden interest in advanced potions?" she inquired suspiciously, not letting the book go. "You are a second year, are you not?"

"Um- Harry's godfather- he's my friend, Harry I mean, Harry Potter- he's a werewolf, and he's really good at potions. He knows the Wolfsbane, of course, being a werewolf and all, and I thought that if I sent him some of these herbs, he could make enough to last throughout the summer so he wouldn't accidentally bite Harry. Because then Harry would be expelled, and he's the only reason I haven't flunked out of Potions yet. Well, him and Hermione Granger in Ravenclaw. But anyways, I'm back because I forgot to write down a couple ingredients."

"So _you're_ not going to make it?" she demanded.

"No, ma'am," Neville squeaked.

The librarian hesitated. Then, reminding herself that even if Neville _did _do something stupid, it couldn't possibly affect her precious books, she handed it over.

"Thanks, Madame Pince," the boy said quickly. He held the text tight and trotted over to the nearest table.

Despite her surrender of the text, the librarian still didn't trust Neville Longbottom with anything even remotely related to potions. She planted herself in the corner and watched him with beady eyes.

Her presence made the Gryffindor shiver. Madame Pince was one scary librarian. She probably shouldn't be allowed near schoolchildren at all. But, like Snape and Filch, there she was.

Water, water, water- aha! Item thirty-one, eight grams of water.

He scribbled that onto his sheet of parchment. _If_ the Wolfsbane Potion had the correct quantities, then _maybe_ it would have the correct order as well. Just in case (it couldn't hurt), he jotted their order down as well.

A tiny grin made its way across his face. Madame Pince saw it and stiffened, wondering what horrid and extremely combustible idea he'd come up with. She made a mental note to warn the house-elves.

Neville wiped his wet palms before picking the book up and returning it to its slot. His tiny smile widened. Madame Pince began backing away.

The Gryffindor walked away, back to his dorm. He barely remembered to make sure that his roommates weren't present before drawing his bed's curtains together and Portkeying away.

He found Sirius and Tyr working on a new cottage. Nearby, Dudley tapped something into their cooking cauldron and gave the mixture a stir.

The werewolf and Animagus were discussing the Chalice and its deficiencies as they worked on the new cottage's walls. They were so deep in their conversation that they didn't notice Alexander's presence until he loudly cleared his throat.

The two men looked up. "The herbs are here already?" Tyr asked skeptically.

Alexander shook his head. "Sorry, but no."

Tyr sighed softly. "Figured."

"However, I _do _have some good news."

"You found Saysa?" exclaimed Dudley, face lighting up.

The disguised Neville flinched again. The Muggle's face fell. "Oh."

"It's about the lycanthropy curse," the wizard explained. "I don't have the herbs- I've ordered them, but it will take time before they arrive- but I think that I have a starting-out point for them." He proffered the parchment. The others crowded around.

"I took this from the Wolfsbane Potion," he explained. "It contains all the ingredients on the Chalice. These are their quantities and orders. I don't know if they're the same in the Chalice, but it can't hurt to try." He shrugged helplessly.

Tyr ran his finger down the parchment. "The Wolfsbane is powerful stuff," he murmured. His gaze focused. "This feels right."

"Does that mean it is right?" asked Dudley.

Alexander thought back to something Dobby had said: Werewolves can scent destiny. Goosebumps rose across his skin.

Tyr folded the parchment, placed it carefully in his robes. His gray eyes were flecked with gold. "It feels _right_," he repeated. "Do you think it is?"

The Prince of Flowers nodded slowly. To think that _he_, Neville Longbottom, who had almost failed Potions twice, had discovered this…. "I think it is."

* * *

><p>Harry doesn't like using Dumbledore and Voldemort's tricks... but if Saysa's life is on the line, he'll use them without hesitation. He won't like it, but he'll do it. With Tyr, his friends' lives weren't in danger, so he didn't use the Mind Arts. Hope that cleared things up.<p>

Happy New Year!

-Antares


	17. Dragons' Liege

_Oh coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me! -Richard III_ V.3.198

"So she's not in Hogwarts, and she's not with Aberforth Dumbledore."

"That pretty much sums it up," Apollo agreed. "Any more plans, Pollux?"

The Parselmouth shook his head. It was easy to believe, looking at his haggard, exhausted face, that he had the memories of a sixty-plus-year-old man. It was harder to believe that behind the Fae glamor, he himself was but twelve years old. "Sisith has volunteered to follow Dumbledore invisibly, but snakes can't Apparate. Wizards can. And yes, Pallas, I know that you can't Apparate into or out of Hogwarts, but there are other methods of magical transportation that Sisith can't use either. Floo Powder, broomsticks, Portkeys…." He rubbed his temples.

"Perhaps an exchange of hostages?" suggested Bianca.

"I don't think he's close enough to Aberforth that he'd exchange Saysa for him."

The blond woman hesitated. "But there are people essential to Dumbledore's plans. If we targeted one of them, he would be forced to give her back to us."

"But who's important to him?" Sirius wondered. "We know who's important to the Wizarding world- the Minister, his support staff, the Department Heads, members of the Wizengamot- but how do we know if those people matter to Dumbledore?"

Bianca did not move her gaze from the worn figure of Pollux. "There is one person who I _know_ is essential to whatever he has planned."

Pallas took the bait. "Who?"

The other woman grimaced. "I know that you won't approve, Pollux, but it's not like we would be harming him. He would just be Stunned for an inordinate length of time. He would be much safer with us than Saysa is with Dumbledore."

Thunderclouds gathered on the Parslemouth's brow. He suspected what she was getting at, but had to know for sure. "_Who,_ Bianca?"

"Mark Potter."

The tension in the room became almost palpable. Even those who didn't know Pollux's true identity could see in his stance that Bianca had crossed a line.

"No," the Lightning Speaker growled. "We are _not_ involving him in this."

Tyr arched a brow. "Why, because he's too young?"

Dudley began scooting surreptitiously towards the door. He'd never seen Pollux that angry before. It wasn't a calming sight.

"It… might work," Apollo noted hesitantly. "No, Pollux, hear me out. We don't even know what Dumbledore has planned. We can guess, but the only thing we know for sure is that it involves Mark Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived is too good a pawn to pass up."

"But that's awful!" cried Pallas. "We can't just go around kidnapping people, or we'll be no better than they are!"

"I don't like it either," Bianca hissed, "but do you have any better ideas? Mark Potter wouldn't be in danger. Saysa _is_."

"We have to draw the line somewhere," he retorted. "I've already Obliviated Aberforth. That was bad enough, but it was _necessary._ I had no other option. _Now,_ though, we have a choice. There _has_ to be some way to rescue Saysa without nabbing Mark." The skin of his knuckles was white with strain. "There _has_ to be."

"But is there?" Bianca demanded. "And if there is, can we find it in time? Or perhaps, once we find it, we discover that it is even more reprehensible. What then?"

Pollux's entire body drained. He looked old, ancient even.

"At the very least consider it." The blonde's was soft, gentle, regretful, she didn't like this either. "Saysa's life is on the line. I know that you don't want to involve Mark. I know that you want to keep him safe and happy. But I also know that Saysa is in more danger than she has ever been. We are the only ones who could save her. Please, Pollux, at least think about my plan."

"I don't think it would work," Alexander volunteered shyly. Everyone in the room turned to him. "What if kidnapping Mark made Dumbledore come after us? He might have tracking charms on him, or some other way of finding him. Then Dumbledore would find the Isle and Padfoot and Tyr and the Chalice. What I'm saying is, we don't want to provoke him until we know we can win."

"Unless we have no choice," Bianca retorted.

"But we do have a choice. Either we focus on finding Saysa and rescuing her ourselves, or we find some way to make Dumbledore hand her over. Personally, I think that the first option is less…."

"Less _what_?"

"Less like what he would do," Alexander finished, flinching away.

"And how, pray tell, do you intend to find her?" Bianca demanded. "She could be anywhere in the British Isles. For all we know, Dumbledore has some secret hideaway in France!"

"I don't know!" he cried. "But I think we can figure it out. Pollux, do you know any tracking spells?"

"If I did, I'd have used them already."

The Gryffindor's shoulders slumped. "Good point. I didn't think of that."

"But his point is still valid," Pallas pointed out. "We don't want to provoke Dumbledore. The second we go too far, he _will_ turn against us. I don't know what he can do, but I don't want to find out."

"So we actually have three options," Apollo mused. "We either provoke Dumbledore now, gather up our strength and provoke him then, or find Saysa ourselves."

"The second option would take too long," Tyr announced, "so it's not an option at all."

"I vote for option C," Sirius decided. "It's the least risky, I think."

"C," Alexander agreed. Pallas nodded her agreement.

Pollux met Bianca's gaze. "C," he growled, daring her to challenge him.

Tyr looked at the two disguised Slytherins: one dark and defiant, the other pale and icily enraged. "C," he decided, "at least for now."

The Daughter of Frost knew that she was outnumbered. "Very well," she acquiesced. "How should we carry this out?"

No one answered.

"I could go through his old hidey-holes," Sirius finally volunteered. "I know where quite a few of them are. Or maybe I could send the house-elves to them- only if they wanted to, of course," he hastened to add, noticing Pallas's thunderous expression.

Bianca took in her fellow witch's basilisk gaze. Her eyes went wide. "How many of the dragons can access the serpent sight?"

Pollux's head snapped around. He saw what she was getting at. "About twenty of them."

"They could scan the countryside," she breathed, "searching for any pattern that might be Saysa. Dumbledore doesn't know about the serpent sight- he won't have warded against it- and the dragons will be happy to serve a Queen of Serpents."

"Norberta especially," Apollo agreed.

The dragons' wrath had been terrible to behold. Their souls were fiery as their breaths, and they were all loyal to Saysa. They would gladly scour the countryside for her. The only difficulty would be persuading them not to attack until the humans had rescued Saysa. It had been hard enough to persuade them not to raze Hogwarts to the ground.

Norberta in particular had been hard to restrain. Saysa was her foster-mother, the only family she had ever known. To her, the basilisk was more than just a respected Queen of Serpents. She was kin.

"What are we waiting for?" Sirius demanded. "The dragons are usually on the south side of the Isle this time of day. Let's go tell them."

Padfoot was right. Almost two dozen dragons, Norberta among them, lay basking in the spring sun. The Ridgeback was the first to react to the humans' presence. **"Did you find her yet?" **she demanded.

"**No,"** Pollux replied, "**but we have more ideas for where to search." **

"**Tell me," **the dragoness demanded.

The Parselmouth summarized parts of their conversation, leaving out Bianca's suggestion that they abduct Mark. He knew exactly how she would react if she thought that taking his brother would help her mother: she would fly to Hogwarts herself and snatch him out of Quidditch practice. Entertaining as Dumbledore's reaction to _that_ would be, it would probably traumatize poor Mark for life.

"**I can track down those of us who can use that sight," **volunteered a Hebridean Black.

"**How long will it take?**" Pollux asked.

"**Perhaps a day." **

"**Good. We'll need that long to map your route, make sure there's no overlap." **

The dragon nodded his vast head before unfolding his wings and soaring off.

Norberta did not share Pollux's approval. **"Good**?" she echoed. **"It's not **_**good**_** at all. Every second you delay is another second for him to kill my mother, and you want to wait a DAY?" **

"**Do you have any better ideas?" **her friend demanded. **"Because I'm open to suggestion. We all are."** Oh yes, just as long as that suggestion didn't involve kidnapping Mark.

Slowly, very slowly, Norberta sank to her haunches. She hung her head until it nearly touched the sand. **"No. Not about how to find her. But can't you hurry up with mapping our routes?" **She lifted her head until it was level with Pollux's face. Their eyes were less than half a foot away. He could feel the heat of her breath. **"I'm ready to leave now. Tell me where to go, and I'll be there by sunrise." **

"**That's the point, Norberta,**" he tried to explain. **"We don't know where to send you yet."**

She leaned closer. Her fangs were less than an inch from his face. **"Figure it out. Make one route now, and add the others later. Give me something in southern England or Cornwall- something far away." **

There was no arguing with a determined dragon. It simply didn't work. Grimacing, Pollux summoned a map of the British Isles, a quill, and ink.

Norberta watched closely as the human marked off a section of southeastern England. He labeled it Section 1- there was no time to be creative with naming. "Pallas, do you think that this is a reasonable amount of land for Norberta to search?"

The Indian witch leaned over his shoulder. "That looks about right, I think. It's large, but dragons are fast."

"Good." Pollux switched to Parseltongue, relating the landmarks and roads that Norberta would encounter. **"When you're finished, come back here. Don't waste any time in another dragon's territory." **

"**Just Disillusion me already." **

"**All right, all right." **He pulled out his wand and cast the spell. The dragon's wings snapped open, and off she flew.

"Do you think she'll find her?" whispered Alexander.

Pollux stared off after the invisible dragoness. "Merlin, I hope so."

* * *

><p>That night, the moon rose fat and full, casting its spell on the werewolves in the Concentration Camp. They huddled together miserably in the containment chamber, stripped of their clothes and wands, waiting tensely for the transformation.<p>

For the first time in his life, Remus Lupin looked forward to the full moon. The Chalice hadn't been at its full power, but it _had_ done something. His senses were sharper than they'd ever been, especially smell. He felt stronger, less tired, less old.

What would happen tonight, when the moon's magic was even stronger?

The moment arrived. The werewolves collapsed, writhing in pain as their limbs twisted and fur sprouted from their bodies.

Remus fell with them. Whatever else the enchanted cup it had done, it hadn't destroyed his pain.

He expected the wolf to envelop him, and it did. But tonight, instead of losing all awareness until moonset, his mind entered a dreamlike state. He couldn't control his body, but he was aware of what it was doing. It was a dull awareness, apathetic, but it was far more than the coma to which he usually descended.

The wolf was in pain. Oh, Merlin, the pain! It was less than normal, for his human had drunk of the Blessed Waters, but it still burned in his bones. His blood was like acid, his skin like fire.

Around him, his brethren whined and cried and howled. They scratched at themselves, bit, tore, trying to alleviate the desperate pressure within them. A few attacked other members of the pack, their frustration taking over.

The wolf which shared Remus's mind curled up in a corner, tossing and turning, trying to sleep. He and the human were closer-to-same, so he felt no urge to attack his own body.

He watched the other werewolves throughout the night as they whined and bled. Fur and blood coated the floor, mingling with old fur and dried blood from other full moons.

Then the moon set, and the wolf retreated to the depths of Remus's mind. The human took over, eyes wide in wonder. He stared at his unmarked body in disbelief. No injuries. No blood. For the first time since he had been bitten, he had escaped the full moon unscathed.

And next month (his breath caught), the others would too.

* * *

><p>"Is this the place, Daphne?"<p>

The Slytherin nodded. Both she and Hermione were in their natural forms. They stood at the crest of an Irish hill, watching the sun set. "Are you certain you want to see this?" the younger witch asked. "Last time you witnessed a rath being restored, your serpent sight went berserk."

Hermione nodded, jaw set. "I'm positive. We need to open as many raths as possible, and that means I need to control the sight."

Not even Harry had any idea how the rath-opening ritual would affect her. It was possible that she hadn't used the spell enough during the last month to be forcibly shoved into the world of auras and not-scents. On the other hand, it was also entirely possible that the magic would affect her worse than ever.

So instead of having her perform the ritual herself- who knew what harm the sight could do if it surged at the climax of the spell?- the prophesied five had decided that Hermione should tag along with one of them. If she lost control of the magic, she wouldn't be allowed to restore a rath next month. If, however, the sight remained dormant, she would risk casting the spell at the next full moon.

That was why she was here with Daphne instead of safe and snug in her bed.

"Time to start," the younger witch murmured.

The two friends darted down the hillside. They paused at its foot. Daphne strung her bow, nocked an arrow, aimed. She drew the string as far back as she could and fired.

Had she been aiming at an actual target, she would have missed. The Slytherin girl was worse than all of them at archery, possibly because she'd had the least practice. But the ritual did not require perfect aim; all it needed was enough force for the arrow to clear the mound.

Daphne repeated her actions twice more: nock, draw, fire.

The sky grew darker, but the young witch ignored it. She set off to circle the hill. She clutched a vial, filled with something like water but very different, in her hand. As she walked, she poured the crystalline liquid into her footsteps. It glowed like captive starlight.

Hermione waited, occasionally glancing at the fading sun. The serpent sight hadn't done anything yet, but she knew better than to let her guard down. The ritual wasn't done yet.

Daphne reappeared. She trotted to the place where her walk had begun. She was chanting softly, Gaelic words of power. The hairs on Hermione's neck tingled.

The witch grimaced, unsheathed an ornate silver dagger. Forcing out the chant through gritted teeth, she slashed the knife across her palm. Blood splashed onto the ground, followed shortly by the knife itself.

Hermione's entire body tensed.

Light that was not light flamed, searing her eyes. The taste of something ancient and wild coated her tongue. She staggered, fell to her knees. A door slammed open, and magic entered the world.

Hermione gasped, choked. A vortex opened underneath her feet. She teetered on its brink. Otherworldly music played on the edge of her hearing.

And then the knight was there, an orange-eyed man on a white horse. He grabbed her by the hand, pulled her onto his horse. And they were off.

Daphne stared after them. Her jaw hung open in a rare loss of composure. First Saysa, now Hermione?

The Ravenclaw clung to the knight's back. Beneath them, the strong muscles of his horse bunched and expanded as he galloped through the air. The witch's eyes squeezed shut. The serpent sight was still there, and the things she could see with it made her dizzy. That, and she was terrified of heights.

Fear not, Messenger of Truth. I shall not let you fall.

The steed slowed, halted. Hermione peeked one eye open. Her heart rate slowed.

The horse stood on the shore. Waves crashed against the stony ground, steady as the beat of a drum.

"Why did you bring me here?" Hermione whispered. She remembered all the stories, both Wizarding and Muggle, about the fate of those who rode with the Fae. She didn't _think_ that the knight would do anything to her- his queens needed Harry's help to restore the raths, and he wouldn't do anything if Hermione had been taken- but one never knew with the Sidhe.

Orange eyes laughed at her. For the joy of the ride. She shuddered. Those eyes… her serpent sight was still active, and those eyes burned like twin suns. She couldn't look at them.

The horse leapt into the air. It ran more slowly this time, lower, close enough to the ocean that its legs grew damp with sea spray.

Hermione looked down, careful to avoid the faerie knight's candle-like gaze, and gasped. Magic rippled across the sea, a stream of light. It was thin now, barely a trickle, but it grew stronger and wider and faster before her very eyes.

Do you hear the singing?

She did. On the very edge of her hearing, a chorus of angelic voices crooned their song. If she strained, she could almost make out the words. Smiling, all fear forgotten, Hermione looked once more into the creature's eyes. For a single moment she met his gaze- and then she remembered the effects it had on her.

Memory spawned reality. The orange warmth strengthened beyond mortal ken. Nausea bubbled in her stomach. The serpent sight lurched, crawling back inside her. The singing fell silent.

Disappointment shone in that fiery gaze. Think, but think not. Feel. Only then will you solve the riddle. 

Her breath caught. She choked, forced down bile. "W-what do you mean?"

The stallion turned, rose. They galloped through the darkening sky, leaving a thin trail of starlight behind them. Hermione shut her eyes once more, terrified that her serpent sight would flare again and make her vomit.

Then the horse dove. Its human rider screamed, grabbed the knight in a desperate embrace. Their mount stopped.

"Hermione!" yelled Daphne, running towards them. Her call was spoken aloud, a human voice instead of the faerie knight's inhuman telepathy. "Are you all right?" A warm hand- human flesh- gripped hers.

"I'm fine," she whispered. Not daring to open her eyes, she dismounted.

The stallion whinnied as it turned toward the now-open rath. Its rider raised an arm in salute, though only Daphne saw. She saluted back, not knowing what else to do.

Think, but think not. Feel. Only then will you solve the riddle. 

And he was gone.

* * *

><p>...I don't think that Hermione will be allowed to play with the Fae anymore. Just saying.<p>

Reminder: the poll about Blaise's Animagus form is still up on my profile. Also, a couple new chapters have been added to _Behind and Between._

-Antares


	18. Prisoner's Sentence

_And thus I clothe my naked villainy _

_With old odd ends stolen out of holy writ; _

_And seem a saint, when I most play the devil. –Richard III, _I.3.26-28

Dumbledore had intended to break her by leaving her alone, helpless, bound and hidden in the dark. But she was the Lady of the Chamber; she had spent the past thousand years deep within the bowels of the earth. Sitting here in the silent darkness was almost like coming home.

The three days she spent in darkness were rejuvenating, relaxing almost. She was unaccustomed to socialization; she needed to recover from the constant contact with centaurs and goblins and human children and werewolves and everything else.

So when Dumbledore returned, expecting to soften her up, he instantly realized the depth of his mistake. Saysa was not human; she might look it, but _she was not._ Therefore she could not be broken by the dark, silent solitude that would ruin humans.

The headmaster cocked his head, considering. He was on a time limit, though Saysa didn't know that. He couldn't perform Legilimency- what kind of fool would knowingly look into a basilisk's eyes? And he had no doubt that Veritaserum would be met with nothing but Parseltongue.

"They will come for me, you know," she told him. Her voice was soft, weak with thirst, but still strong.

"Of course they will," he murmured back. "The Stormson, the four elements." A cold smile, "The maid of air."

Saysa stiffened. Dumbledore's smile widened. She hadn't known that he knew about them.

"And your allies, of course," he continued. "Tyr Ulfhednar, Sirius Black. What did your master do with Dudley Dursley, I wonder?"

Her face lost its expression, became blank as un-carved stone.

"So, what shall I do with you?" he mused aloud, eyeing her.

Saysa did not reply.

Dumbledore leaned close. His smile, cold and deadly, was like that of a shark. She could feel his breath on her face; he could feel hers on his. "Have you ever heard of Inferi?"

* * *

><p>Blaise woke with a gasp. His entire body was slick with sweat. The liquid soaked his tangled sheets, plastering his pajamas to his skin.<p>

He rolled, grabbed for the dream diary Hermione had told him to keep. He pulled it and a quill back into his bed, closing the curtains behind him.

The dream had begun like the others, in a moonlit forest grove….

_The youth was older now, no longer a youth. Gray peppered his temples, and he had grown a beard. His face was lined with wrinkles. Nonetheless, he had not lost an inch to flab. He had grown physically stronger, steadier, more balanced. _

_The wolf at his feet was ancient. Its fur had lightened to gray, even to white around the muzzle. _Are you ready?_ It asked in a voice that was not a voice. _

"_I am," the no-longer-young man replied. He dropped to his knees. Fur sprouted from his skin. His bones contorted. _

_Blaise had never seen a werewolf transform before. He'd been told it was a thing of horror, sick twisting limbs and melting flesh. This, though… it reminded him of Saysa's change. It should have been hideous, nightmarish, but it was not. It had an odd beauty to it. _

_The two wolves knelt, noses touching the ground. They held the position for several seconds before looking up. Other wolves, eyes glittering gold, peered at them from the trees. _

_Then the two whom they were watching lunged at each other. They tore, snarling and ripping, fangs and claws flashing silver. For a few seconds their forms blurred together, too fast for Blaise to keep track of. Then they separated. _

_The older werewolf lay flat on his back, legs tucked tight against his body. His eyes were closed. He stretched his neck, exposing as much of its surface as he could. _

_The younger lycanthrope trotted over to his fallen foe. He laid a paw on the other's shoulder. Then, very deliberately, he bit the elder's throat. The bite- more of a nip, really- lasted only a second before the new alpha released the old. _

_The pack darted out of the forest, surrounded the two combatants. The older wolf rolled over, climbed to his feet. Then he knelt. The other werewolves followed suit, front legs forward, eyes closed, ears and tails hanging. Only the younger werewolf, the one who had triumphed, remained standing. _

_He threw back his head and howled. The old alpha- now a beta, Blaise thought- joined in. The remainder of the pack looked up, sang to the moon. _

_The world blurred. Blaise knew that time had passed- a month, to be exact. _

_This time, the werewolves wore their human forms as they gathered around their leader. _

"_No wraiths have been spotted this moon, either," a woman reported. "It's as though they've all vanished." _

"_Perhaps they're all dead," a man suggested. "We have killed many of them, this past generation." He nodded at another man, elderly but still strong, who must have been the old alpha. "Perhaps their numbers were too few and they couldn't replace their fallen." _

_The alpha shook his head. "I wish you were right, friend, but you could not be more wrong." He stood. "The wraiths have merely migrated. They've fled to the west and the north, gathering their strength until they are powerful enough to attack us once more. Then, generations from now, when our descendants have grown fat and complacent, they will take their revenge." _

_Cries of horror and outrage erupted from the clearing. Many shook their heads in denial, not wanting to believe something so horrible. Even the former alpha's jaw tightened, though he spoke not a word of protest. _

"_How do you know this?" demanded a young woman, her body covered in scars. _

_The previous alpha rose to his feet. "Thirteen moons ago, when the wraiths' population began to drop, I sent scouts to hunt them down. Most of them returned in the spring, but one did not come back until I had stepped down." He nodded at his successor. "She found that the demons have migrated to lands without protection, lands where they may feast at will." _

_The woman who had questioned him sank to the ground. "What can we do?" she whispered. _

"_There is only one thing we can do," her leader replied quietly. "The wraiths have fled. We must follow." _

_Murmurs broke out. The alpha held up placating hands. "Not all of us must go," he assured them. "Just me, though I would gladly accept your company. One werewolf and the Cup are enough to raise a new pack, one that will chase these monsters to the ends of the earth- or to their deaths!"_

_Cheers erupted, but the alpha wasn't done yet. "I leave at the next full moon. Speak with your families, your friends, your neighbors. If you would come, I will take you. If not, may the gods pour out their blessings upon this pack until the end of time." _

"Jackpot," Blaise muttered, recording everything he could remember. Then, raising his voice, he called, "Oi, Harry, you awake?"

"Unfortunately." The black-haired boy poked his head out of his bed's curtains. "I'd really rather be asleep."

"Us too," snapped Theodore Nott. "I want all the sleep I can get before exams, thank you very much."

Blaise blinked. In his excitement over the dream, he'd almost forgotten that their exams began today. No one was entirely certain why the professors had chosen this particular day to begin torturing them- it was a Thursday, for Merlin's sake; shouldn't they wait until Monday- but they had.

"I've had enough sleep," he lied. "Harry, let's go to the common room and cram."

"Fine."

It took Harry longer than normal to get through his morning ablutions. Blaise waited impatiently in the common room. He eventually got up from his chair, paced around. Sitting had made him sleepy. After all, he'd stayed up quite late the night before, and they'd all been stressed about poor Saysa. Of course he was tired.

When Harry finally entered the common room, his fellow Slytherin couldn't help but flinch. He himself was tired, yes, but he didn't have vast black bags under his eyes like the younger boy did. Harry was moving more slowly than normal, like an old man instead of a twelve-year-old youth.

"You okay, mate?"

The younger wizard shrugged. "I will be. I can sleep during break. What did you dream about?"

"The effects of sleep deprivation on growing wizards."

"Not funny, Blaise. What did you _really _dream about?" Painful hope shone in those reddened eyes. "Where she is?"

Blaise's heart went out to him. He shook his head, all humor forgotten.

Harry sank deeper into his chair.

In a soft voice, the Dreamer related what he had seen. "I always wondered how it got to Britain," he concluded. "This must be it- they were following the wraiths, the dementors. Then, once they had chased them all the way to the British Isles, something went wrong. The Chalice was lost, and they went from protectors to predators."

Harry nodded tiredly. "I bet the dementors had something to do with that. Do you think you'll dream about that next month?"

"I hope so. If we know what went wrong, we have a better chance of preventing a repeat. 'Those who forget' and all."

"Exactly."

"You sure you're all right, mate?"

"I'm _fine._"

"It's not your fault, you know."

"Isn't it?"

"It isn't," he repeated, firm and resolute. "Harry, you did everything in your power to keep her safe. You had no reason to suspect that the Chalice was jinxed like that- nothing else was, and Saysa couldn't see any extra enchantments on it." His eyes narrowed. "Was it Tyr's fault?"

"Of course not," he replied automatically.

"But Tyr was there too. Why shouldn't it be Tyr's fault?"

Harry smiled ruefully. "All right, Blaise. I get your point."

"What point?" his roommate asked, the paragon of innocence.

"That being present at something horrible doesn't imply responsibility." His eyes darkened. "But that doesn't mean it's not my responsibility to get her back."

"_Our_ responsibility, Harry," Blaise reminded him. "The five of us, and the dragons, and Sisith, and everyone on the Isle. With all of us working to find her, Dumbledore doesn't stand a chance."

Harry nodded, wishing with all his heart that Blaise was right.

* * *

><p>Mark glared at the sink. "Open up already!" he yelled.<p>

"It's a sink," Moaning Myrtle sneered. "It's not _going_ to open up."

The Boy-Who-Lived grit his teeth. He considered telling her that it _wasn't _an ordinary sink, that it _had _to be the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets- why else would it have that stupid smirking snake inscribed on it?- but squelched the urge.

"Maybe you need to be a Parselmouth," Ron suggested. "Slytherin was a Parselmouth." He began making hideous hissing noises that no real Parselmouth would have understood. The only comprehensible word hidden amid that gibberish was Sisith's favorite profanity.

"I think you need a _real_ Parselmouth," Dean commented dryly. "Anybody know any real Parselmouths?"

"No," replied Mark. "Maybe Harry does, because he's a Slytherin. Or maybe Snape was a Parselmouth- he's certainly evil enough."

"Maybe we could put a snake in the sink and see if anything happens," Seamus proposed.

"Maybe you could go away and leave me alone," Myrtle hissed. She hovered over the sink, arms crossed. "Go away. I don't want you here."

"She's actually got a point," Mark grumbled. "Exams start today, remember?"

"Thank Merlin we don't have tests in Potions or Defense," muttered Ron. "I couldn't have handled that, mates."

"Go away," Myrtle repeated, waving her arms. "Shoo. You have exams to take."

"Chipper little thing, isn't she," Ron groused as they exited the bathroom.

"Something like that," Mark agreed.

"Bloody mad, more like it!" Dean exclaimed. "She's completely barmy. Who in their right mind would haunt a toilet?"

"No one," Seamus affirmed. "Absolutely no one."

"She should be exorcised," Mark decided. "Her and Binns both."

His friends grimaced. History of Magic was their first exam.

The next two days passed in a blur. The tests were harder than they'd been last year, especially history and Transfiguration. If they'd actually had to take Defense and Potions, Mark didn't think that they would have survived.

They tried to discuss the Chamber and its resident, but exams took too much of their time. Either they were studying or walking off to class or someone (usually Neville Longbottom, who lived with them. Life would have been so much easier if he'd just been Sorted into Hufflepuff) was right there, his mere presence preventing them from formulating plans.

It wasn't until Saturday morning that Mark had a burst of inspiration. Ironically, it was Neville, the same person who had inadvertently prevented him and his friends from brainstorming, who provided the solution. He was lying on his bed flipping through his potions book, mumbling under his breath about the properties of parosela. Mark had been watching him with annoyance. Didn't he realize that they didn't _have_ Potions exams that year? And anyways, no amount of studying could make him good at brewing. Good at blowing things up, yes, but not brewing.

At this point, a light bulb went off above Mark's head.

Who said that they needed to find a password? Why not just blow the entrance up instead? He could think of several ways to do it- the magical equivalent of Molotov cocktails, pouring combustible potions down the sink, using spells to blast the wall in. It was pure brilliance!

His brain kicked into high gear, miraculously recovering from the strain of the exams. He had to find some kind of silencing spell, something that would keep the basilisk from hearing the explosion. Then he'd have to find a spell for explosions- or he could just ask Neville to make him a potion. Wait, scratch that. It would blow up too soon. Best stick with the blasting spell, then.

But where would he find a blasting spell? They didn't teach offensive magic like that for at least another year. Perhaps Harry would know? But he'd want to know why Mark needed a blasting spell, and he'd see through any excuses.

He wished that Gilderoy was still there. The man had been incompetent, but surely he'd known at least one basic blasting spell?

Professor Dumbledore! He and the headmaster often ate supper together; they were going to do that tonight. He could pretend that the question was for one of his tests. Charms, probably- he hadn't taken that one yet.

Yes, that would work brilliantly. All he had to do was figure out a couple of easy, easy spells, and then it was show time.

He smiled. Across the room, Neville glimpsed that smile and shuddered. How was this boy related to Harry again? It was hard to believe that the Potter twins were twins at all.

But, he thought, returning his attention to the potions text, I have bigger fish to fry. I can't do anything about Saysa until the dragons are back, but I _can_ help Moony and Tyr.

Mark upped and left. The other Gryffindor smiled, relieved.

The Boy-Who-Lived arrived early at Dumbledore's office. The headmaster was reading at his desk, the picture of a saintly grandfather. "Lo, Professor," he said.

Dumbledore's face split into a wide smile. "Hello, Mark. How are exams going?"

The boy sank into his favorite chair with a groan. "Killer. Can't you just outlaw them?"

The older wizard chuckled. "I wished that many times myself when I was your age. But you didn't come here to hear an old man's memories, did you. What would you like for supper tonight?"

Mark shrugged. After years at the Dursleys', he wasn't exactly a picky eater. "Whatever you're having, I guess."

He knew (or at least thought he knew) how to manipulate the old man. In reality, of course, it was the other way around, but Mark was ignorant of that little detail.

It took only a few minutes for him to direct the conversation to 'things I might need to know for my Charms test on Monday.'

"That sounds like _reducto_," Dumbledore told him.

"Yeah!" Mark exclaimed. "That's the incantation I was looking for. But I've forgotten the wand movement." He grinned sheepishly. "I guess all this studying is making my brain melt."

"It happens to all of us," the old man assured him. "Have you been getting enough sleep?"

"Yeah, I think." He frowned. "What's that one spell where you can make something soundless again? I think Professor Flitwick said it would be on the test." Another sheepish grin, "Maybe I'm not getting enough sleep."

"The spell is _muffliato_." He drew the Elder Wand, demonstrated the correct movements. "Can you think of any other spells that might be on the test?"

"No, sir. Thanks, though. I think you just saved my bacon."

Their conversation turned to inanities after that. Mark had everything he needed.

When the Boy-Who-Lived exited his office, Dumbledore tapped the Elder Wand against his book. "_Portus,_" he murmured.

The prison had not changed in the few hours since he'd left it. Even Saysa was in the same position, rigid with fear in the corner.

"Any last requests?" he asked softly. "For tomorrow you die."

* * *

><p>Um, Harry? I would recommend hurrying up and saving Saysa. Because she's kind of going to die tomorrow if you don't. And then Dumbles will turn her into an Inferius, just to prove that he's really, really mean. So HURRY UP ALREADY!<p>

-Antares


	19. Death in the Chamber

In which the centaurs' prophecy is fulfilled.

* * *

><p><em>Dar'st thou die?- Measure for Measure <em>III.1.77

"Ready, guys? Great. On three, then. One, two, three!"

"_Reducto!"_ the four Gryffindors chorused, firing at the wall.

"What are you doing to my bathroom?" Myrtle shrieked, eyes bulging in horror. "I live- exist- here!"

They ignored the ghost girl, choosing instead to inspect the wall. They'd done some damage, yes, but it was still standing. "Again," Mark declared. "One, two. Three. _Reducto!_"

"Knock it off!" Myrtle screamed. "Quit it!" She charged at them, trying in vain to physically knock them aside, but she was a ghost. She flew right through them. Desperate, silver tears of frustration leaking from her eyes, she tried to intercept their third volley of curses, but that too failed.

"One more round should do it," Mark announced, ignoring the hysterical girl. "One, two, three. _Reducto!_"

He was right. The wall crumbled, revealing a surprisingly well-kept secret passage. It was shaped like a large slide- serpent-shaped, Mark thought, perfect for a giant bloody basilisk to slither through. The tunnel's surface was smooth, worn down by the force of time. All the rubble which had fallen into the passage had slid down into the depths of the earth.

"I'll go first," the Boy-Who-Lived decided, squaring his shoulders. Wand-tip shining with magical light, he descended into the tunnel.

The fall was faster than he'd anticipated. The walls were so smooth that very little friction barred his way. He whizzed down, down, down into the bowels of the castle. Only the thin, shaky light of his mistletoe wand illuminated the vast, ancient darkness.

Fortunately for Mark, the incline leveled out several hundred feet before he hit the bottom. The leveling out was gradual, and the surface became rougher as it grew more even. Unfortunately, he collided with several stones- bits of the wall which had fallen through the tunnel- not badly enough to seriously wound him, but with enough force that he'd be bruised in the morning.

The Gryffindor flinched, rubbed his aching knee. "I'm fine!" he called, hoping his friends could hear him. "Just let me move these rocks out of the way."

He heard some kind of response from Myrtle's bathroom, but not clearly enough to discern any words. He thought for a second before deciding to move the rocks as quickly as possible, because if he couldn't hear them, they probably hadn't heard him either.

It was a good decision, because seconds later Ron slid into the Chamber of Secrets, nearly hitting the rocks. "Quite a ride, eh?" he joked.

"Yeah, quite a ride. Now help me move these rocks, okay?"

Seamus and Dean arrived shortly after he redhead. "Ugly place, isn't it?" Seamus commented.

"Cleaner than I expected, though," Mark noted. "I expected- I dunno- slime and stuff."

Had he been thinking of anything but the fact that he was voluntarily attacking a gigantic snake monster, he might have realized that cleanliness implied use by humans. (Actually, it had most recently been cleaned by Norberta the dragoness for Saysa's thousand and seventeenth birthday, but Occam's Eazor implied human intervention. Occam's Razor was technically correct, as Norberta had been told to clean by a human, but it was also quite wrong.) But thoughts of the basilisk consumed his mind. He didn't notice anything suspicious about the Chamber of Secrets.

Well, besides its very existence. And the fact that it was in a school. And the fact that it contained the world's largest mutant snake thing.

But he was a hero. Heroes weren't afraid of snakes, no matter how large or deadly. He would defeat it, and then he would feel like a hero again. He'd _be _a hero again.

Mark Potter, who thought himself the Boy-Who-Lived, was many things- but coward was not among them. He squared his shoulders, firmed his jaw, and said, "Let's get going."

They got going.

"If you see anything move," Mark cautioned them, "close your eyes and fire that one curse at it." He strode ahead, outpacing the other boys. "Then-"

Ron yelled. As his friend had been talking, he'd glimpsed something on the ceiling. _"Conjunctivo!_" he bellowed, aiming wildly.

Fawkes dodged the curse. His red plumage, bright though it was, faded into the shadows of the Chamber's ceiling.

The Gryffindor's curse wasn't strong enough to destroy the ceiling by itself, but it had help. Fawkes, compelled by his master, used the light of the hex colliding with stone as camouflage for a burst of flame. The fire ignited the explosive powder Dumbledore had placed in the ceiling.

For the second time in under an hour, an explosion rocked the Chamber of Secrets. Rocks tumbled from the ceiling, loud and obvious, separating Mark from his friends. Dust rose, filled the air, choked them.

Seamus was the first to recover his breath. "Ron, you idiot," he hissed, shoving the boy. "What was _that_ for?"

"I saw something!" he replied defensively.

"You thought there was a snake on the ceiling?"

The redhead reddened. "Oh. Er- Mark, you all right?"

"I'm fine," his friend called back. His eyes watered because of the dust, but he was physically unhurt (except for the bruises from earlier). He coughed. "You guys start moving those rocks. I'm going on ahead."

"Wouldn't it be smarter to wait for us?" demanded Dean.

Mark shook his head, ignoring the fact that they couldn't see him. "The snake heard that."

"Maybe it's sleeping," Seamus suggested weakly.

"It's not," Mark replied. His skin felt cold and clammy. Sweat streamed from his body, into his eyes, down his back.

"How do you know?" asked Ron.

"Because it's right here. And it looks very, very awake."

* * *

><p>Her prison had changed, these past few days, transformed into something designed to wear down her will. Bright light, loud noises, illusions of people crowding close: everything her Chamber, her home, was not, this was.<p>

But despite the distractions, she couldn't stop thinking about what Dumbledore had said. Inferi. Sweet Merlin, he would change her into an Inferius….

_I made a promise to the acromantulas, you see_, he had told her. His voice was smug, confident, and hateful. _They've desired your death for fifty years now, and they would make far better allies than you. So I'm going to kill three birds with one stone: Mark Potter will be trained, the spiders will be satisfied, and I will still be able to use you as bait. I have much experience with bespelling lifelike Inferi._

Bait. She wouldn't be able to betray her friends, but they would still perish because of her. Hermione especially was in horrible danger.

And once she was dead, she could do nothing to stop it. Her will would be sapped, destroyed, enslaved to her new master's whims.

But her friends wouldn't know. They'd think she was still alive, still in danger. Eventually, they would come to rescue her- or rather, her reanimated corpse; a corpse that would betray them.

And then it would be over.

Her only hope was to escape alive, to run or fly or slither, anything that would get her away from him. But how?

It was too late. She heard a door opening, a human walking in. Her entire body went stiff.

Today was the day the centaurs' prophecy would come true.

"_Crucio_!"

Pain. Awful, obliterating pain. It wiped all conscious thought from her mind. The world ceased to be. Only the pain was real.

A few seconds' reprieve, and the pain struck again. Her scream tore at her throat, ripping the tissue. Her eyes filled with automatic tears, soaking into the blindfold.

Then it was over. She lay there, panting and soaked in sweat, trembling like an autumn leaf.

Dumbledore's voice was soft, almost gentle. "_Imperio_."

And the pain was… not gone, but somehow not real anymore. Saysa floated in an ocean of warmth. A gentle light suffused her, washed away the spasms of leftover agony. She felt half-asleep, like a dreamer about to wake up- or a dreamer who had just fallen into slumber.

_Go with him… don't resist, Saysa, follow him…. _

She followed, dazed and confused and tired. The pain had been a preemptive strike, a way to shatter her already crumbling defenses. She was too weak, too tired and afraid, to mount a defense against the curse infecting her mind.

And so she followed him into the Chamber of Secrets, her home (how had he gotten inside? Why hadn't the defenses kept him out? And how had he known to find it? These thoughts barely penetrated the haze of light. They were irrelevant.) She obeyed when he ordered her to close her eyes, to revert to the form of her birth. He had removed the shrinking spell. Her full length, sixty-plus feet of muscle and scales, stretched across the room.

Saysa's eyes were closed. The whispers in the light told her to keep them shut, and she obeyed. She had no choice in the matter.

Dumbledore left. She didn't know why. Perhaps it was to establish an alibi. Perhaps it was because he was confident in the power of his curse, a spell that would drive her willingly towards her own death. Whatever the reason, he left her alone.

She waited placidly through the first explosion (it had been Mark's first attempt at _muffliato,_ and it had failed miserably). Then another boom echoed through the chamber, and the soft voices told her to go forward. Once again, she obeyed without question.

Her eyes opened of their own accord. A young boy crouched in front of her, clutching his wand, hissing spells that missed by a mile. His eyes were closed, his face contorted in fear. But despite his obvious terror, he kept shooting, methodically moving his wand from left to right, intending to sweep through the entire room.

Saysa hissed. There were no words in that hiss, just a terrifying warning. The boy before her froze for a moment before resuming his volley of spells. His hand shook, but he kept firing.

A curse ricocheted off Saysa's thick hide, hitting the chamber's walls. She hissed again- the voices wanted her to alert the boy that she had been hit.

Keeping his gaze low, the boy risked opening his eyes. He caught a glimpse of green and aimed his wand accordingly. "_Conjunctivo! Conjunctivo!_"

The voices hummed in approval: a brave boy, if nothing else. _Now go forward, Saysa, and make noise while moving. He needs to hear you_.

Once again, she obeyed. The boy lunged aside, barely avoiding her open-mouthed strike. He backed into a corner, face pale. His wand hung limply by his side.

_Slow,_ they murmured, _slowly towards him…. _

A song like liquid fire echoed throughout the Chamber. It thrilled her blood, scorched her very bones. The music drowned out the voices, burned through the soft golden haze fogging her thoughts. Her mind snapped back into focus, filled with horrified clarity.

Mark Potter. Mark Potter, Harry's beloved twin brother, was in her Chamber. And she had tried to kill him.

Oh, not willingly, but _she had tried to kill him_. She had… she had….

Her eyes snapped shut. She turned to flee, to get away before death came to the Chamber of Secrets.

But Mark, too, had been emboldened by the fire song. He peeked through half-closed eyes, glimpsed the retreating streak of green. More importantly, he glimpsed that her eyes were lidded, her mouth open in a silent scream.

"_CONJUNCTIVO!_"

His aim was true. His curse flew into Saysa's mouth, damaging the unprotected tissue of her gums. The copper taste of blood coated her tongue. She paused her retreat, stunned by the injury. Then she realized how it had happened and closed her mouth. With all parts of her body protected by armor-like scales, he couldn't hurt her again.

But Mark wasn't alone. Fawkes and the Sorting Hat were there, and they were slaves to the Spider's will. He was Headmaster of Hogwarts, and he knew Fawkes's true name. Saysa might have been freed by the phoenix song, but _they_ were still bound.

The bird dove, pecked at her lidded eyes. He was a magical creature, too; his beak was strong enough to draw blood, though not strong enough to go all the way through. His song had ended, becoming nothing more than hisses and shrieks of fury- not at her, as Mark undoubtedly thought, but at the one who forced him to attack an innocent soul.

Saysa backed away more quickly. She'd almost turned completely around; it was a clear shot to the Chamber proper, if only she could finish turning. Not even Fawkes could stop her then- not that he would try very hard.

In his office, Albus Dumbledore lifted his head, gazed sightlessly at a place beneath his feet. He felt that his spell had been broken- and not by Saysa's death. A tiny frown marred his mouth and forehead, but it was nothing compared to the rage bubbling within.

"Albus?" Minerva McGonagall asked. "Are you all right?"

The headmaster forced a smile. "I'm fine, Minerva. Just a stray thought." He was a skilled enough actor that she detected no trace of his fury.

Fawkes shuddered. He could sense his master's wrath; he _knew_ that he would pay, and dearly…. But he forced the thought from his mind. This one was marked by fate itself, and he would not let her die.

Never mind that he knew, deep in his bones, that today death would visit the Chamber of Secrets.

Mark hadn't been idle. As the phoenix flew around Saysa's head, pecking and clawing and singing, he had been firing useless spells off the basilisk's hide. She hadn't even noticed, being rather too preoccupied with things that _could_ hurt her.

The Boy-Who-Lived finally realized that spells wouldn't work just as Saysa's head reached the corner. Wild-eyed, he glanced around the Chamber for something- anything- that would help. His gaze fell upon the ratty, tattered Sorting Hat.

It wasn't a weapon, but he didn't have any other options. Fawkes was keeping that _thing_ (how big was it? A hundred feet? Two hundred? And sweet Merlin, those _fangs…._) busy, but how long would that last? Phoenixes were just birds, puny compared to the basilisk's bulk.

Perhaps, he reasoned, grabbing at the hat's still form, it can teach me a spell or something to kill that snake with; or maybe a spell for removing the rocks. Maybe another spell for bringing the ceiling down on that snake. Speaking of which, how did Ron _do_ that?

No, never mind. Stay focused, Potter! Put the hat on your head and ask for- ow!

As he had jammed the headpiece onto his cranium, something hard had fallen out of it. Both the hat and the thing within it toppled from his head. He bit back a curse- the basilisk would hear it- and lunged at the hat, intending to shake whatever was inside it _out_ and jam it on his head again.

He had expected a rock. It was perfectly reasonable that a rock had ended up inside the Sorting Hat. He had _not_ expected a shimmering silver sword.

Its blade was long as his arm. Three fingers thick it was, with an upraised groove in the center. The pommel was studded with rubies- real, genuine rubies! A stylized lion prepared to pounce off the hilt.

Mark gawked at the sword. His brain skittered, refusing to accept its reality: a sword falling out of a hat. How _deus ex machina _was that?

Fawkes sang again. The Boy-Who-Lived jumped, thinking that the phoenix had been calling him back to battle (he hadn't, of course. Fawkes had no intention of letting the Imperious Curse reclaim Saysa's mind. His master was powerful, and if the enchantment wasn't rooted out of the basilisk's consciousness entirely, he might be able to reclaim her. But Mark had no idea of this).

He smiled, fingers tightening on the hilt of his new sword. The Sorting Hat was by his side, but he ignored it, launching himself once more into battle. Who needed a hat when he had a gleaming silver blade?

Goblin-made steel is one of the strongest substances known to man. It is indestructible by magical and physical means, unable even to be tarnished. A strong man could have plunged a blade constructed of goblin-made steel right through Saysa's emerald scales, into the unprotected muscle and bone beneath.

Mark was not a strong man. He was a wizard boy, one who had neglected physical activity for the past two years in favor of wandwork and Quidditch. Moreover, he had no idea how to properly wield a sword. As a result, he was physically incapable of boring through Saysa's protection to skewer her heart.

Not that that stopped him from trying.

Saysa jumped in alarm as something cracked one of her scales. She began to turn towards it, saw Mark's head, and glanced away. She couldn't risk accidentally meeting his eyes, not even now that he had a weapon that might actually injure her.

For a moment, she was tempted to shift into her human form. Surely he wouldn't attack a defenseless woman, would he?

But even as the thought entered her mind, she knew it would be futile. Fawkes at least would be forced to keep attacking her, and humans had none of her natural protection. Even if Mark didn't follow the phoenix's example (which was not particularly likely), Fawkes would have to go for her throat.

Mark came up on her side. She squeezed her eyes even more, terrified of accidentally killing him. **"I don't want to fight you!" **she cried, but he didn't understand.

Was today the day she would die?

No. Today was the day of the centaurs' prophecy. A day of death, yes, but _not of hers._

But was her life worth Mark Potter's?

With ruthlessness she hadn't known she possessed, Saysa found herself considering, weighing the options. Mark was the Spider's pawn; she was not. He played a tangential role in the prophecies; she was one of its main players. But he was Harry's brother, his twin, and she was nothing but a foul worthless pile of _slime_ for even considering letting him die.

And yet, slime or no, she couldn't die yet. She had a role to play; she-

She froze.

Phoenix song filled the air, music purer and brighter than any she had heard before. Even the Fae would be hard-pressed to compete with Fawkes.

Fawkes, the third being in the Chamber, was a phoenix; one who would rise from the ashes of his own grave.

Was it just her imagination, or did the firebird's song really sound happier than it had a moment ago?

Sharp pain by her jaw snapped Saysa out of her thoughts. She started, nearly opened her eyes to gawk at the child who had jammed a sword into her mouth. Fortunately for Mark, she stopped herself at the last possible second. He raised his sword to strike again-

-and Saysa slammed her head against his body, knocking him into the wall.

The breath whooshed from his lungs. He coughed, gasped. The sword fell from his hands, clattered against the floor.

Once again, Saysa head-butted him. Her aim was truer, this time. Mark's skull bounced against the wall. He didn't lose consciousness, but the blow had done its job. He was paralyzed, too dazed and surprised to move.

Fawkes screamed a battle-cry. Compelled by dark magic, he lunged at her eye.

The eye opened, focused on him. Dark-slit gold met beady black, and Fawkes burst into flames.

Mark screamed a horrified denial. Saysa jerked her head aside, slamming her eyelid shut. The flaming bird bounced off. Still burning, he hit the floor.

The Boy-Who-Lived lunged towards the dying fire. "Fawkes! No!"

Saysa hit him again, and the world went black.

* * *

><p>PSYCH! You all thought that Saysa would die- <em>but she DIDN'T!<em> Did I mislead you or what?

Remember, folksies, the poll is still up. If you care about Blaise's Animagus form, please vote.

-Antares


	20. The Guardian's Return

_The purest spring is not so free from mud. -Henry VI _III.1.104

"Thank you again for liberating me, Saysa."

The basilisk didn't reply.

The phoenix song had given her a boost, back in the Chamber. Now, though, Fawkes was far away. Not to mention that he was only a fledgling now, too young to rally her exhausted mind and body.

After killing the firebird and knocking Mark unconscious, Saysa had shifted to her humanoid form, grabbed the prone Sorting Hat (the thought of leaving another prisoner in Dumbledore's clutches sickened her), and fled into the Forbidden Forest. That had been hours ago. Dusk was falling, and she still hadn't found the centaurs.

Now that she had time to think, she realized that she had made horrible mistakes. Mark had no medical attention- Fawkes was too young to weep his wounds closed, and the boy's friends were trapped behind rock. What if he died?

And even if he didn't die, he was in her home. More importantly, he had access to her books, to the prophecies transcribed by the Founders themselves.

Once again, Saysa cursed herself for a fool. She should have run down the golden stairs, grabbed or destroyed the books (she had them all memorized anyways), and then made her escape. But then cold terror crept into her mind. Memories of pain and screaming… a bloody curse… no sleep, no food nor water, no warm comforting darkness…. Shuddering, she picked up her pace.

"Are you all right?" the Sorting Hat asked gently.

She hugged it closer. "I will be. I promise you, I will be." But her voice was filled with doubt and fear. She had escaped physically unscathed, save for her messiness and obvious exhaustion, but _crucio _did more than torment the body. It scarred the mind, as well.

The hat flinched, wishing that it could do more than just speak. "If you want me to understand, I will," it reminded her. Its voice was very gentle.

Saysa sniffled, something she'd never done in her life. She was tired, so very tired, but she had a long way to go before she could sleep. How long had it been since she'd slept? How many days? And how long would it be until she could let go of this fear?

"Lady?"

Terror washed over her. She spun, ready to attack and, if necessary, kill- but it was only a young filly. The centaur girl jumped, startled by the Guardian's reaction.

Saysa let herself relax. She opened her mouth, tried to return the greeting, but suddenly everything was too much. The ground spun, and she collapsed into an exhausted faint.

* * *

><p>"Are you all right, Mark?" asked Dumbledore. The headmaster was the very picture of grandfatherly concern: larger-than-normal eyes, concerned face and voice, a hand reaching out to his charge.<p>

"I'm fine, sir," the Boy-Who-Lived mumbled, averting his gaze. He reached out, placed his precious burden on the headmaster's table. The infant phoenix cheeped pitifully.

"You don't look fine," his confidante chided. "Neither does Fawkes." He stroked the bird. It shuddered. "What happened, Mark?"

He couldn't meet Dumbledore's gaze. "I… remember those spiders from last month? I… I went after the thing that scared them away. It was a basilisk, a huge basilisk, and… and it got away."

The headmaster stiffened. In a slightly louder, more urgent voice, he repeated, "Mark, _what happened?_"

The miserable Gryffindor told him everything: how he had discerned that the beast was a basilisk, how he had hunted down the Chamber of Secrets, how he and his friends had been separated after their clumsy invasion, how Fawkes and the Sorting Hat had come to his rescue (at this point, he started to wonder how in the world they'd gotten there, but Dumbledore shepherded him back into safe territory).

"So I failed," he concluded. "I'm sorry, Professor." He looked and felt ready to cry.

The headmaster considered. This day had been a disaster. The basilisk had escaped and somehow stolen the Sorting Hat. Mark had been wounded. Fawkes had been _killed_. It would be two months before he could use his magic again. His deal with the acromantulas had been broken, because there was no way he could get ahold of Saysa before summer's end. Worst of all, he had discovered a flaw in the Elder Wand: phoenix song was powerful enough to annul one of its curses. It _might_ have been because Saysa was pure in heart- not that he knew if she was or not; he thought she was, but he'd been wrong before- but what if phoenix song did that for _everyone_?

As soon as Fawkes was grown, he would have to test the hypothesis on Severus. The one-armed Potions Master was certainly not pure in heart.

The bird cheeped again, but didn't move. His True Name, that which bound him to Dumbledore, had not changed. He had no choice but to serve the human.

Dumbledore stroked him again, harder this time, hurting him. The baby whimpered- not just at this pain, but at the punishment yet to come.

But that would come later. Right now, Mark was waiting for his idol to speak, to offer comfort. The Boy-Who-Lived had priority.

"You did a brave thing, Mark, trying to drive away Slytherin's monster," Dumbledore said gently. "I just wish that you had prepared more."

"I did prepare," he protested. "I had a plan and everything. We were all gonna shoot the Conjunctivus Curse at its mouth and eyes. We thought about taking mirrors to aim with, but we decided not to because we didn't know what that would do to us."

"My apologies, then," the old man replied. He sighed heavily. "What's done is done, I suppose, and you have done a great thing today. I doubt that the monster will ever return to Hogwarts, and if it does, it will trip my wards."

"Good," Mark replied, relieved.

"As a reward for your bravery, you and your friends will receive one hundred points for Gryffindor. Each."

The boy's eyes went wide. "One hundred _each,_ sir?"

He smiled, nodded, eyes twinkling like little stars. "One hundred each, Mark."

His shock evaporated, replaced by glee. "That's- thank you, sir! Thank you! I have _got_ to tell the others about this!" He got up, prepared to leave.

"Don't you want to learn more about the basilisk?"

Dumbledore didn't like being so direct, but too much had been ruined. He needed Mark to learn at least a little bit more about his nemesis. Just a bit, of course, why should he learn everything just yet; but enough to whet his appetite, and enough to turn him away from Dumbledore's enemies.

Mark did, of course, so Dumbledore began his tale. "Fifty years ago, when I was a young Transfiguration professor…."

The Boy-Who-Lived listened in stunned silence as his role model related the events of two generations previous. "You taught Voldemort?" he gasped, amazed.

"To my eternal regret, yes." Dumbledore hung his head in shame.

Three seconds later, the Gryffindor realized what else his mentor had said. "Wait. Voldemort's name was Tom Marvolo _Riddle?_"

"Indeed."

"Like that Riddle guy who rescued those girls back in January?"

Once again, Dumbledore nodded.

Mark looked ready to faint. "Voldemort has a _son?_ Oh, _ew."_

"That's one way of putting it," his mentor chuckled.

The Boy-Who-Lived frowned, brow creasing with thought. "Like father, like son," he muttered under his breath. Then, louder, he asked, "But what's Riddle up to? Is he trying to trick people into following him by making himself look like a nice guy? And who are the other people? I heard that they looked really different from Riddle, and, Professor, I really can't see Voldemort having more than one kid." He paused for a moment. "Actually, I couldn't really see him having _any_ kids, so never mind."

"I don't know, Mark," he replied softly. "I have no idea what Pollux Ophion Riddle, son of Lord Voldemort, has in mind. Perhaps he is serving the purposes of his father. Perhaps he is serving his own desires. All I know is that we must approach him with caution- you are the Boy-Who-Lived, the boy who survived by reducing his father to less than a spirit, less than the weakest ghost.

_Wonderful,_ he thought. _Another Dark Lord who wants me dead, just what I've always wanted._

But he wasn't fool enough to say that aloud. He knew that Dumbledore- the entire Wizarding World!- was counting on him to get rid of Voldemort. Instead he said, "Thank you for telling me, sir."

The Spider smiled. Everything was going according to plan. "You're very welcome, Mark."

* * *

><p><em>Good for Neville,<em> thought Augusta Longbottom. _Those friends of his have been a good influence on him. It's about time he started putting more effort towards Potions. _

She wondered when the owl carrying ingredients from their greenhouse would arrive at Hogwarts. Soon, she thought- it was a fast owl, and the weather had been good lately. Certainly, less than a week, though probably more than three days.

The old woman smiled, staring off into the distance. The owl had just faded into a dark speck. She blinked, and it vanished.

Then she frowned slightly. Potions had never been her best subject (though she was not half so inept as her poor grandson), but she couldn't remember many concoctions that required monkshood, adders tongue, hemp, and boneset.

Well, she reasoned, Neville has a different teacher than I did. And at least these aren't combustible.

Augusta turned back to the house, already focusing on other things.

How was she to know that she had just sent her grandson the salvation of the werewolves?

* * *

><p>Harry and Hermione were under a tree, arguing about when the dragons would be back and what they should do then, when the owl arrived. It was a wild bird, dirty and sharp-clawed, without the gentleness of a domesticated owl. It landed on Harry's head, talons digging into his scalp, and hooted impatiently. It had been sleeping when the centaurs found it, and it wanted to return to slumber.<p>

"Ow!" the Slytherin yelled, batting at his passenger. "Gerroff me, you stupid bird!"

The owl did not appreciate being called stupid. It pecked at Harry's forehead, hooting irritably.

Hermione grabbed at it, dragged it aside. It hooted once more before flinging its leg in her face. She yelped- its talons were too close to her eyes for comfort- but hastily untied the letter it was carrying. The owl aimed one final peck at Harry's head before flying away.

"_That,_" the Parselmouth hissed, "was the most ill-behaved owl I've met in my life!** Stop laughing, Sisith!" **

"**Why? It was funny!" **

"**You weren't the one who was almost pecked to-"**

Hermione, who had ignored the boys' banter in favor of reading the letter, shrieked. Harry and Sisith snapped to attention. They looked around for danger (Dumbledore, acromantulas, _something_) before realizing that her cry had been one of joy, not of terror.

The Ravenclaw flung her arms around Harry. Happy tears leaked from her eyes. "Oh, Harry, it's wonderful!"

"What's wonderful?"

She laughed, thrust the letter at him.

He had received a similar missive months ago: bark paper, berry ink. It was from the centaurs. Well, that explained why the messenger had been so rude.

The letter's first sentence drove all thoughts of badly behaved owls from his mind. His hands shook. "Hermione, is this-"

She nodded. "Why would the centaurs lie? She's back! Unconscious or not, she's _back!_"

"Unconscious?" Harry hadn't read that far. He scanned the letter, searched for the relevant word or phrase. Sure enough, the second sentence mentioned that she was out cold.

His immense smile shrank somewhat, but not even the news that Saysa was injured could quench his joy. Saysa was alive and free. Not well, exactly, but _alive_ and _free!_ How could he not rejoice at such wonderful news?

"Come on," he exclaimed, grabbing Hermione by the hand. "Let's go tell the others."

It was easy to track them down: Blaise and Daphne were in the Slytherin Common Room, while Neville was lounging in the Gryffindors' tower. Harry wasn't allowed inside, of course, but Hermione managed to ask a passing fourth year to go fetch Neville Longbottom, please and thank you.

The Prince of Flowers took one look at his friends, all of whom were nearly bursting with excitement, and demanded, "What happened?"

Harry and Blaise seized him by the arms, frog-marched him through the halls. "She's with the centaurs," the Parselmouth murmured.

Neville froze for a second then sprinted up ahead. Laughing, his friends followed.

By the time they arrived at the centaurs' glade, the group was out of breath. They didn't care, though, for they could see Saysa, safe and sound.

The basilisk wore her human form. She was dirty and even paler than normal, with bruise-colored circles under her eyes. Her hair was matted and tangled, her clothes worn and wrinkled. She seemed older, somehow, aged by fear and hard use.

But she was alive, gloriously alive, and she was free.

Looking at the serpent-woman's sleeping form, Harry felt chills run up his spine. Why had Dumbledore let her go? There was a chance that she had escaped, but….

He shifted into his Fae form. Pollux pulled out his wand. "Checking for tracking charms," he grunted, "or anything that shouldn't be there."

His friends paled. As one, they too transformed. "You think her release is a trap?" Pallas whispered.

"Release?" demanded a centaur they didn't know, a grizzled stallion. "What do you mean, release?"

"Dumbledore had her," Bianca explained. Skirting around the fact that Saysa had been missing for days, not merely hours or minutes, she added, "She arrived back rather quickly. You're right to be cautious, Pollux. Can you detect the Imperious?"

"He can't," said a scratchy male voice, "but I can."

The companions started. For the first time, Harry gazed down at the burden in Saysa's arms. "Hat?" he asked incredulously.

The Sorting Hat bowed its tip. "The one and only."

"What happened to her?" Pallas demanded.

"Exhaustion, mostly," the headpiece replied. "Fawkes did most of the work by breaking through Dumbledore's Imperius, but-"

"Imperius?" cried Alexander and Pallas.

"What about Fawkes?" asked Pollux.

"Who was Imperiused, her or him?" demanded Apollo.

"How do we know you aren't a spy?" snapped Bianca.

"Peace, peace!" the hat yelped. It tried to make a placating gesture but, being a hat, failed. "I'll start at the beginning, I suppose…."

The prophesied five (as well as assorted centaurs, who dearly wanted to know what in the worlds had been happening) listened in mute horror as the Sorting Hat related the day's events to them. It spoke softly, not wanting to awaken the exhausted Saysa, but its words did not need to be loud. They seemed to echo around the forest glade, within the hearts of the listeners.

"Mark- tried- to- kill- her!" Harry snarled, eyes bulging. His face was white and bloodless, drawn in an expression of horrified rage. "He- he-" He fell silent, unable to articulate how he felt.

"At Dumbledore's instigation," Hermione reminded him. "He was tricked."

Her friend made a strangled sound. His twin brother had just tried to kill one of his closest friends. Trickery or not, it would take a long time for him to get over that- assuming he even could.

"You are certain of this?" Even the archons, the four centaurs who led the herd, had gathered to hear the Sorting Hat's story.

"He's had it planned for months," the headpiece asserted.

"I have no doubt about that." Saysa's voice was weak and strained, but not yet broken. She sat, smiling wanly. The dark circles beneath her golden eyes had faded somewhat, though not entirely, making her look like a recovering invalid.

"Saysa!" her friends cried, forgetting all about the Spider's webs. They lunged, grabbed her in a hug that left her gasping for breath. Horrified by the sound of her difficult breathing, the prophesied five staggered away, babbling apologies.

"I am fine," she rasped. "Just thirsty and tired."

No one bought it. They certainly believed that she was thirsty and tired- that much was obvious to them all- but no one was fool enough to think she was fine.

In many ways, the Imperius Curse was the worst of the three Unforgiveables. The Killing Curse was quick. Its victims didn't suffer; that was left for those it left behind. The Cruciatus could be fought, defied, if not ignored. But a successful _imperio_ stripped its victims of everything: free will, conscience, friendship, love, duty. Everything.

_That _was what Saysa had been exposed to. Not only had she failed to fight it off, she knew exactly what would have happened if Fawkes hadn't saved her.

The others did, too. Only blind luck so extraordinary that it bordered on _deus ex machina _had saved her life.

They coddled her for the rest of the afternoon, ignoring her protests and threatening to hex her with the full Body-Bind unless she sat back down, _now._

Later, once they had returned her to the Isle (at which point she had been greeted enthusiastically by Sirius, Dudley, Tyr, and a small army of dragons), she finally managed to get Harry alone for a few moments.

"Is there anything you want me to do?" were his first words.

Saysa couldn't meet his eyes. She was silent for a long moment before finally begging, "Forgive me."

"For what?" Harry was honestly confused.

"When I fought against Mark Potter…." She stared at the walls of the castle. They were worn with age, yet years younger than she was.

The serpent-woman found that she couldn't say it. So, partly to prepare herself and partly because it needed to be said, she confessed, "I left the books behind, the prophecies, my notes, the old spell books. I should have gone back and taken them, but I was so afraid…." She laughed ruefully.

"Fear does that to you," Harry mused. "It steals your mind, your soul."

Saysa nodded. She knew exactly what he was talking about.

"But don't worry about the books, Saysa," he continued. "Hermione got them out the day you were captured. We didn't realize that you'd answer his questions in Parseltongue. That was brilliant of you."

She didn't answer, didn't thank him for his undeserved praise. Did he really need to know about the other bit, the thing she wanted so badly to hide from him? It would be easy, so very easy, to….

No. Mark was his brother, and she was his friend. He had to know.

It was so rare that Saysa felt her age. Now, though, she felt every one of her thousand and seventeen years. At the same time, though, she felt like a guilty hatchling, caught sneaking into the chicken coop for a quick and tasty meal.

"…I considered killing him to save my own sorry hide."

She couldn't keep the bitterness from her voice. She didn't want to. These past few days, especially this day, had introduced her to parts of herself that she hadn't wanted to meet.

Harry sucked in a quick breath. He knew who 'him' was. Saysa closed her eyes, brushed her fingers across her forehead. "I am sorry, Harry," she whispered.

A hand on her shoulder, squeezing hard, it loosened, the grip becoming gentle. Then it pulled her close. Saysa didn't resist.

Harry hugged her. "I forgive you."

* * *

><p>So no, Fawkes didn't get away. Poor birdie.<p>

And for once, I agree with Mark. Voldemort having a kid (which implies impregnating a woman) is very ew.

-Antares


	21. Cured at Last

_All the world's a stage,  
>and all the men and women merely players;<br>They have their exits and their entrances,  
>and one man in his time plays many parts. -As You Like It <em>II.7.139-142_  
><em>

The rest of the month passed in a blur of frenzied preparation, last-minute studying, and heart-stopping joy.

Neville's herbs arrived just days after Saysa's escape. His grandmother, not knowing how much he would need but knowing full well his reputation, had sent so much of the ingredients that the poor owl had to spend five whole days recuperating. The day after that, a vast quantity of parosela arrived from the Apothecary.

The other four Gryffindors, who couldn't help but have noticed that _Neville Longbottom_ was receiving _Potions ingredients,_ fled to Hagrid's hut. They stayed there as long as they could, only returning to the castle when the Keeper of the Keys kicked them out.

They needn't have worried. Neville- or rather, Alexander Chamberlain- had used a Portkey to go to the Founder's Isle almost immediately.

Three agonizing hours later, the first batch of potion was complete. They had brewed it within the Chalice itself, reasoning that perhaps the ingredients would gain more magical potency from its presence. The downside to that was that they could only brew a little at the time. The cup was relatively large, but it was no cauldron.

"You first, Tyr," Remus insisted. His eyes were bright with hope, making him look years younger. It was obvious to all watching that his doubts had vanished, that he believed wholeheartedly in the goblet's prowess.

And he did. He was a werewolf, and werewolves could scent destiny. If this night, with its beautiful silver cup and strong alpha, was not destiny, he would eat his godson.

"You've sacrificed more than me, and you're the leader," he continued.

_Yes, _agreed the wolf in his mind. It too was impatient, eager to become whole, but it acknowledged that the alpha of the pack was first.

"To destiny," the other werewolf toasted, lifting the silver cup. Then, slowly and solemnly, he brought it to his lips.

Dead silence fell as Tyr Ulfhednar, Alpha of Britain, drained the Chalice of the Moon. His eyes were closed, his face expressionless. No one could tell how or even if the magic had affected him.

Without a word, Tyr returned the chalice to Pollux's hand. Remus's heart thundered in his chest. His alpha hadn't said anything… but he was smiling.

Tyr melted.

His was not the transformation of an Animagus. It was too protracted, too fluid. The change was more akin to Saysa's shape-shifting when she flowed from serpent to woman form.

Fur sprouted, gray and brown. Ears shifted, growing larger, migrating to the top of his head. His nose and mouth elongated, the latter filling with sharp fangs. His limbs swiveled, readjusting to a quadruped's stance; a fifth limb, a plumy tail, sprouted from his back.

Tyr opened his eyes. Though they were wolf-golden, they were also filled with human intelligence, human reason, _humanity_. This was not the madness of a moon-called monster. This was a man.

"Sweet Merlin," whispered Remus, eyes filling with tears. "Sweet _Merlin…_."

He was free. The mind-blowing thought filled his head, blocking out everything else. The curse was ended; he was free. He'd never have to worry about biting or killing or maiming or ruining someone's life like his had been ruined.

In his mind, the wolf howled with joy.

"Sweet Merlin indeed," agreed Apollo.

"I don't believe it," Sirius breathed. "I don't…." He barked a laugh, engulfed his best friend in a hug. "This is wonderful, Moony! Wonderful!"

"I know." Remus was laughing, he was crying, he was hugging Sirius back and grinning ear to ear.

"Wonderful," laughed Tyr. He had shifted back to human form, obviously. Like Remus, he was ready to weep with joy. "After all these years…." He turned to Pollux. The gratitude in his eyes was too great for words. "Thank you. _Thank you._"

The Parselmouth blushed. Beneath the façade of Pollux Ophion Riddle, he was still Harry James Potter- Harry, who received praise less than once in blue moon and gratitude even more rarely. He had little idea of how to proceed, and Voldemort's response to 'gratitude' (i.e., a Death Eater's relief at not dying) probably wasn't an example he should follow. He eventually settled for mumbling "You're welcome" in the voice of the child he was.

"And thank _you,"_ the alpha added, turning to Alexander. Neville, who was just as unused to praise as Harry, started. He could scarcely believe that _he, _Squib of the Longbottom family, had saved an entire race. He couldn't blush as brightly as Pollux could- his Fae form was too dark-skinned for that- but that didn't stop him from ducking his head in embarrassment.

"Thank you all," Tyr whispered. "I am in your debt, now and forevermore."

Powerful words, those, and as binding as the Unbreakable Vow.

The first true werewolf pulled himself together. He had been freed, yes, but Remus and the others had not. "You're next, my friend."

Moony's heart leapt in his chest. Finally, after twenty years of pain and fear and hate… it was time.

It took less time to create this batch of the potion. They knew the exact quantities to add, the number of times to stir the concoction (thirteen strokes clockwise). Most importantly, they knew that it would work.

And work it did. Even before he raised the potion to his lips, Remus could feel the sheer power he held in his hands. It made his skin break out in goose bumps.

He drank. The liquid was thick and woodsy, with an indefinable but not unpleasant aftertaste that reminded him of clear winter nights.

_Finally, _the wolf whispered, and it spoke in his voice. Then, howling in triumph, it dove into his mind. Its spirit settled within the creases of his brain, filling gaps he hadn't known existed. A sense of completeness settled over him, granting him true peace for the first time in decades.

Harry was safe. He, Remus, was safe. He'd never have to worry about hurting anyone ever again.

And he knew in the marrow of his bones that the wolf was his, now and forevermore.

Changing shape was easy as breath, easy as thought. It was painless, too- not exactly comfortable, for sprouting fur itched and the sensation of his bones melting was downright _odd_- but it lacked the hideous crippling pain of full moons.

The wolf's form felt as natural as his human body. It had taken his Animagus friends hours to adjust to their new forms; Remus needed no time to use four legs instead of two. He trotted over to Sirius, noting that wolves- or at least werewolves- were not colorblind. He sniffed at the man's proffered hand, inhaling the scent of dog and wizard and man. He could tell _so much _from that one whiff: the last meal Sirius had eaten, the contact he'd had with other human beings (mostly Dudley and Remus himself), even the last time he had slept.

Another thought, and he was human again- or at least, as human as he would ever be. But for once, the thought didn't fill him with bitterness and regret. It made him proud.

Even in this form, some parts of the wolf carried over. His vision had sharpened, especially when he looked to darker places. He could hear the individual heartbeats of those around him, smell their distinctive personal scents. They weren't as acute as they had been moments ago, when he had been the wolf, but they were still more potent than ever before.

The enhanced senses were marvelous enough by themselves, but they were not the full extent of his changes. He felt stronger, not just in his ability to lift heavy weights (which would certainly be a boon at the docks) but in endurance. He could run for hours without tiring, just like a wolf.

"This is wonderful," he whispered one last time, and knew that he would follow those who had given him this- Tyr and Pollux- to the ends of the earth.

* * *

><p>Every once in a while, a werewolf would invite a group of friends over for a little party. They were never particularly exciting, more like a bunch of people sitting around, talking and laughing. The Aurors were used this kind of behavior, so they saw nothing unusual about Remus Lupin holding a get-together in his dingy apartment. If they cared long enough to listen to his explanation, they would learn that he wanted to speak with his adult friends one last time before his godson came home.<p>

They didn't care, though, so no one examined his excuse.

The first guest to arrive, Jake White, took one look at the creature within his friend's house and commented, "You realize we're not allowed to have pets, right?"

"I know," the other werewolf replied serenely. "But I also realize that you're not going to sell me out."

Jake looked doubtfully at the enormous hound. "I won't have to," he grumbled. "That thing must bark to wake the dead. They'll hear it eventually, and even if they don't, how are you going to feed it?"

The dog, a wolfish-looking specimen of unknown breed, trotted over to sniff at Jake's palm. He let it but didn't stop his tirade. "You can barely afford to feed yourself and Harry, even with that Auror girl giving you discounts. Yes, I know about Tonks," he added, staving off Remus's startled question.

The dog pricked its ears.

"Please tell me you don't believe the rumors about us," Remus moaned.

"'Rumor' implies a lack of truthfulness that I believe-"

Fortunately for the mortified werewolf, another guest chose that moment to knock on his door. He scurried over, opened it. "Hello, Cynthia."

"Hi, Remus. What kind of dog is that?"

"The forbidden kind," deadpanned Jake. "The kind that the Aurors will kill him for having."

"I'm not keeping him for long," Remus assured him. "Just for a little while."

"Couldn't you have mentioned that before I started to worry?"

All in all, ten guests arrived. Eleven had been invited, but Angela had come down with a summer cold and couldn't make it.

Smiling serenely, Remus bolted the door shut.

Jake arched a brow. "Holding us hostage, huh?"

"Something like that," the other man replied.

Jake frowned. Remus had been acting strange lately. He seemed happier, like a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He, being a closet romantic, had attributed the change to the other man's budding relationship with Tonks. Now, though, he wasn't so sure. "What's up, Remus?"

Moony grinned. The expression brought youth to his face, making him look his age for the first time in Jake's memory.

The dog huffed. All eyes turned towards it-

-just in time to see it stretch, stand, and shift.

Jake's jaw dropped. He couldn't believe his eyes, but there, right in front of him, was-

"Tyr?" Cynthia's voice was soft, stunned. "Tyr Ulfhednar?" She stepped forward as though approaching a ghost. "Sweet Merlin, it _is _you."

Their alpha grinned. Like Remus, he was different now. Unlike Remus, though, the cause of his change was plain to see.

"You found it," breathed Jake. "You found the cure." Tears filled his eyes, threatened to spill over.

"Not alone," Tyr murmured, "but yes." He held up a hand, silencing the frenzied questions. "I'll tell you what happened, I promise, but not now. Explanations can wait until you've been freed from the curse."

An hour later, when all had drunk of the Chalice of the Moon, the alpha explained. And all present swore their alliance to him, and to the Moon Lord who had guided his steps.

* * *

><p>"Hey, Remus," said Tonks several days later.<p>

The werewolf looked up from his grocery list. Since meeting his friend several months ago, he had done all his shopping during the Auror-trainee's shifts. It was because they were _friends_, NOT, as Jake had implied, anything more. He was perfectly justified in visiting his just-a-friend. "Yes, Dora?"

"I told you, it's Tonks," she grumbled good-naturedly. Then, returning to the subject at hand, she asked, "Why have you guys been holding so many parties lately, and why haven't I been invited?"

Moony froze. "You noticed?" he blurted, too surprised to deny anything. But then, he shouldn't have been surprised. Tonks had good eyes and a better brain.

"Yeah," she replied, looking at him strangely. "Why wouldn't I?"

Remus chuckled. For a moment, he considered telling Tonks the truth: that the werewolves weren't holding parties, that they were curing themselves of lycanthropy's curse. She wouldn't tell.

Or would she? She wouldn't mean any harm by it, but… what if, thinking that her news would result in better treatment for the werewolves, she announced to the Minister himself that lycanthropes had become more powerful than wizards? He remembered a conversation on the Isle, fears about genocide. Fudge was hardly an enlightened ruler; Remus wouldn't put slaughter past him.

Better safe than sorry, he reasoned. Besides, he could always tell her later. He couldn't take back knowledge once it was given, though.

So he lied. Grinning, he said, "I don't really know. They probably just saw my phenomenal party skills and wanted to emulate me."

Tonks laughed, not noticing that his silence had lasted a second too long.

* * *

><p>The Great Hall was covered with red and gold, Gryffindor's colors. They had won, obviously, due to all the points Dumbledore had granted Mark and his friends.<p>

But though everyone knew that Gryffindor had mysteriously acquired four hundred points, not many knew where those points had come from. Rumors abounded- it was a reward to Mark Potter for getting the first edition of his autobiography out, the points had naturally accumulated because Snape was no longer taking them away, Professor Trelawney had gotten drunk.

Dumbledore had let the rumors flourish. Now, though, he felt it was time to weed them out. Send the students home for the summer with tales of the Boy-Who-Lived's heroism; let it be the last thing they learned this school year.

He smiled benignly at his pupils, began the end-of-the-year speech. "Another year under our belts- congratulations. And congratulations to Gryffindor especially, both for its victory and for the valor of its second years, who earned that victory."

Ah, good. He had their attention.

"I believe that Mr. Mark Potter would like to explain how he and his friends acquired the points which led to Gryffindor's second victory in a row. If you will, Mark?" He sat, eyes twinkling, every inch the indulgent grandfather.

Mark stood. All traces of his shame had evaporated, leaving him confident and assured. Arrogant.

"It would take too long to explain how I found the Chamber of Secrets…."

He exaggerated a bit, of course- he was only twelve, and the entire school was listening.

As Mark made his speech, Dumbledore's eyes wandered over the Slytherin table. He glimpsed Harry, Mark's brother. And froze.

The boy's face was tight and strained, eyes burning like green lightning. He was plainly furious… and his own gaze was fixated on Mark.

Of course Harry would be angry with his brother for rushing blindly into danger and then boasting about it. And of course he would say something about that, tell Mark exactly what he thought. And of course Mark would react rather badly to that.

Soon the speech and feast were over, and it was time for the students to depart. Dumbledore glanced back at Harry, was pleased to observe the boy stomping towards his brother.

The Spider smiled.

* * *

><p>Word of the Chalice spread like wildfire, though fortunately only among the werewolves. None of them were fool enough to clue the Aurors in.<p>

Harry returned from another school year with stellar grades, just as he had twelve months before. "You're in a good mood," he commented.

His godfather released him from his hug, grinning widely. "And why shouldn't I be? I've missed you, Harry."

"Ditto," the younger wizard agreed.

The Auror guards who had escorted him to Hogsmeade station coughed. Remus grimaced. "Shall we head home, then?"

"Let's."

"So what's happened?" the young wizard asked once they were safely ensconced in their little home. "You're grinning like a lunatic. You have been ever since the station."

The loony grin widened. "Can't I just be happy that you're home?"

"No. I forbid it."

Remus grimaced. The Dursleys had a lot to answer for. It was a good thing that Petunia and Vernon were still in Azkaban, or he would have done something drastic by now. "Actually, Harry, I do have good news. But that doesn't make my happiness that you're home any less important." He growled the last words, uncharacteristically fierce.

Harry blinked at him, surprised by the ferocity. "Okay. What's the good news?" He smiled mischievously, looking so much like James that Remus couldn't fight off the déjà vu. "Is it a girlfriend? It's a girlfriend, isn't it?"

The werewolf turned pink. "We're just friends, Harry." Bad enough that he had to put up with this from the others; now he had to hear it from his godson as well?

"Wait." The mischief melted from his face, leaving behind surprise. "There really is a girl in your life?"

"A _friend,_" Remus emphasized. "But that's not the good news."

"When's the wedding?"

"We're not getting married, Harry. Can we return to the subject at hand, now, please?"

"Okay, but I still think you're just in denial."

Remus rolled his eyes. "Harry, you're being-"

The wolf's confusion washed over him. Why, it wondered, was the human telling the raven something he already knew? The raven had _been_ there.

Remus's jaw clicked into place. His eyes bulged, almost popping out of his head.

The raven had been there.

"Moony? Moony, are you okay?"

"Harry James Potter, are you out of your _mind!_?" His voice rose in volume and in pitch. By the time he reached the last word, he was practically screaming.

Harry stared at him, jaw agape. "What are you talking about?"

Of course, he didn't know that Remus knew. And five seconds ago, he would have been right.

Shoulders heaving, entire body trembling with suppressed emotion, Remus hissed, "When were you planning on telling me that you're the Lightning Speaker?"

Harry froze.

"Well?" Remus growled. Oh Merlin, how could he have been so _stupid?_ How could he not have noticed?

The raven. Pollux's backstory about how he had become a Horcrux. They both held a common interest in helping werewolves, and a concern over Mark Potter. Even how Pallas had carefully deflected his concern over Harry being a Horcrux- so they wouldn't have to lie even more.

He was a fool.

"Well, Harry? Or perhaps you'd prefer your other name."

He could almost see the boy's thought process: should I lie? No, he knows already. But what can I say that will get me out of as much trouble as possible? Eventually, the Parselmouth settled on, "How did you find out?"

"The wolf," Remus explained. "It realized who Pollux was on the day he- _you_- let slip you were a raven Animagus." He remembered the inexplicable tension in the room, Pollux's long conversation with Tyr afterwards. "Of course, it couldn't tell me then. This part of me, the human part, only just realized."

"Oh," muttered Harry, looking much older than his twelve years, wearier than any child had the right to be. "That explains the sudden mood swing."

His wry comment reminded Remus that oh, yes, he was angry. "Care to answer _my _question, Harry? _Were _you ever intending to tell me?"

The boy grimaced. "I knew it would come out eventually," he sighed. "I think we all did. So yes, I was. Just not now."

"When, then?"

"…I don't know." He sighed, an old man in a child's body. "I don't know, okay? I was planning on figuring that out this summer, drafting a script or timeline or something. That's unnecessary now, though." Those ancient eyes met Remus's. "But before you forbid me from doing things like this ever again, ask yourself this: If not me, then who? Who would have set Tyr on his hunt? Who would have rescued Sirius and Dudley? Who would have saved those girls back in January? Who else can rally the goblins, centaurs, werewolves- all the magical creatures- behind one banner? If not me, then who?"

"That's not the point!" Remus raged, flailing his arms about. "Harry, you're a child. _Twelve_. You're not even a teenager yet!"

"I'm a child with the memories of a grown- psychotic, but grown- man."

"Still a child." He couldn't believe they were even arguing about this. It was ridiculous: Harry should be concerned with homework and girls, not the fate of entire races. That was so blatantly obvious that they shouldn't even have to quarrel about it. He put his foot down. "Harry, I absolutely _forbid_-"

The words turned to ash in his mouth. The wolf held his tongue, keeping him from finishing the proclamation.

"Who else?" Harry repeated relentlessly. "The wolf knows the answer, Moony. Do you?"

"That doesn't make it right!"

Even as the words left his tongue, he realized he'd let Harry win. By acknowledging that there _was_ nobody else willing and capable of fulfilling the prophecies, he had also acknowledged that Harry _had_ to fulfill them.

"We'll talk about this later, young man," he whispered, voice dull with defeat.

Harry's eyes softened. He rested a gentle hand on his godfather's shoulder. "I really was going to tell, you know."

"I know. But please, Harry, I need to think about this."

"Right." Harry pulled away, leaving his godfather and his thoughts alone.

* * *

><p>Huzzah! The curse is lifted. Huzzaaaaaaaahhhhhh!<p>

Except that now Remus knows, and he ain't happy. Oh well.

Next chapter will be the last one of this book. Then you'll have to keep an eye out for _Harry Potter and the Tournament of Houses._

-Antares


	22. Moon Lord

_Be not afraid of greatness: some  
>are born great, some achieve greatness, and some<br>Have greatness thrust upon them. -Twelfth Night _II.5.156-158

"All right, Harry." The words galled him, tasted of wormwood. But they had to be said. "Come out now."

The boy ambled from the shadows. His friend Sisith, the serpent who so frequently accompanied Pollux, was wrapped around his shoulders. The snake lifted its head, met Remus's eyes. It hissed softly, doubtless making some comment that he didn't want translated.

"You have to save the world." _By Merlin, I can't believe I'm saying this. I can't believe it's _true…. "It's apparently your destiny."

"Which makes it my duty," the boy shot back, just a child, and already a regular little philosopher. "Of course, it'd be that even if it wasn't my destiny."

Despite himself, Remus couldn't fight the flash of pride. Scowling, he quashed the feeling. He was supposed to be- and _was_- utterly appalled and disgusted that he had to do this. He was _not_ proud that his godson had, by the age of twelve, destroyed Lord Voldemort, successfully integrated aforementioned Dark Lord's traumatic memories, befriended a basilisk and a small army of dragons, become an Animagus, broken into and out of Azkaban, rescued several kidnapped children from a possessed man, and retrieved the cure for lycanthropy by stealing it from the heart of the Ministry of Magic.

…Okay, maybe a _little_ proud. But that didn't make him any less angry!

"I'm not here to argue semantics with you," he growled. "I'm here to lay down some ground rules."

Harry gawked.

"Rule one: I expect to be informed before you go off risking your life. Rule two: since you'll inevitably rush into danger regardless of whether or not I've forbidden you to do so, I expect you to train for at least three hours a day. That way you have a marginally better chance of survival. Rule three: Sirius _will_ learn of this eventually. Rule four: don't neglect your health or schoolwork for this. You might have Voldemort's memories, but that doesn't mean you can't fail a test."

Harry saluted. "Anything else?"

"Of course. Rule five: for the love of the druids, Harry, _use sense._ I can't tell you how much trouble your father and the rest of us could have avoided if we'd just thought things through. Remember that whatever you do _will _have consequences, and you can't predict those. Rule six: don't go on any of your missions alone. Always take backup."

"I know that."

The werewolf's entire body went stiff. "I see. And where was this backup when you rescued Sirius and Dudley from Azkaban?"

Harry froze. "Er… I had Sisith. And the amulet."

"Not. Good. Enough. From now on, you will bring at least one other witch or wizard whenever you go off adventuring. Do you understand me, young man?"

"Yes, sir," he mumbled, meek as a lamb.

Remus sighed. The fight leeched out of his shoulders. "I know you do, Harry. You're a good kid, despite your… hobbies."

The boy nodded, but the sorrow hadn't fled his eyes. He tried to hide it, but Remus wasn't fooled.

_What should I say?_ The werewolf wondered. _That I'm GLAD James's child is risking his life to save mine? That- _

The words slipped out, honest and pure. "I'm proud of you, Harry."

And Harry's sadness went away.

* * *

><p><em>This is it, <em>Tyr thought. He rubbed at his arms- or, more precisely, the goose bumps covering them from wrist to shoulder.

Outside, the sun was setting, painting the world hazy pink and gold. Shadows lengthened, blue fingers caressing the ground.

He crossed the small apartment, looked towards the east. Clouds.

Normally, Tyr didn't mind clouds. They kept the sun at bay, something he could appreciate while working at the docks. This night, though, he utterly despised them.

The moon was full, but he couldn't see it. It was hidden behind these accursed clouds.

He- and doubtless the other werewolves, though they hadn't yet come out of the containment chamber- had gotten through moonrise unscathed. That was good, even more proof of the Chalice's purifying power. But the Wolfsbane Potion could also delay transformation on cloudy nights. If a werewolf had taken Wolfsbane, his body was safe… until the moon peeped out from around the clouds. Then, when the first of its unfiltered rays struck the surface, the werewolf would transform.

It was entirely possible that the Chalice, which used the Wolfsbane's most potent ingredients, suffered the same flaw. What if, when the moon broke through, the werewolves found themselves uncontrollably transforming? He had no doubt that even if they were to transform, they would retain their right minds- but the thought of hoping so much for complete control and being let down at the last minute was too much for him to bear.

The door creaked open. Tyr spun, a growl rising in his throat. Then he fell silent. "You shouldn't be here, Harry. What if the potion didn't work?"

"Then it has a funny way of not working, what with you and the others being able to transform at will and all," he shot back wryly.

Tyr acknowledged the point with a nod. He returned his gaze to the window. Was it his imagination, or were the clouds thinning?

Within him, the wolf- passive but alert- rumbled its reassurances. _We are one, now. The moon-call will hurt no more._

"Any particular reason you're here, Harry?" he asked.

"I just got a late owl from Blaise. Apparently he's been trying to reach me for the past two days with a reminder that the werewolves in his Dreams were apparently telepathic. He thinks that you and the others should test that out later tonight."

_Are we?_ Tyr asked.

The wolves didn't exactly have ancestral memories- that was the domain of the dragons- but they did possess a general outline of their history. It was hard for the human parts of their minds to understand, but their wolf-selves had vague impressions of originating far to the east and north, of long battles in the night, of coming west. Those not-quite-memories were very faint, though. The only truly strong one was that of the Chalice vanishing. There had been battle that day, wolves and dementors and humans in gleaming armor, but the fight had been a distraction. When the werewolves returned home, they discovered that their precious treasure was gone.

The wolves couldn't 'remember' what happened next. Their impressionistic history was tied up with possession of the Chalice. With it gone, they couldn't absorb any more experiences into the tapestry of their history.

The humans, though, were intelligent to reason things out. The day the Chalice had vanished, there had been a battle between werewolves and humans. Some of those humans had to have been bitten, but they hadn't drunk of the Chalice. They were wild, untamed, and fully capable of spreading the cursed gift across Britain. Later, their 'descendants' had spread the disease into Europe, Asia, Africa, and the New World.

"Any more news?" Tyr grunted.

Harry shrugged, the fabric of his robes rustling. "Four of us opened new raths earlier today. We were down south, of course- the sun sets earlier there, and I didn't want to miss this." By this point, he had walked up to stand beside Tyr. Both wizards stared at the clouds which hid the moon, waiting.

"Hermione is fine, I assume?"

"Of course. She's in France with her parents, nowhere near the raths. Unless that knight crosses the English Channel to get to her, she's safe."

"Good." A vein throbbed in the werewolf's neck. "Because if you had let her near the Fae after what happened last time-"

Harry scowled. "Give us some credit, Tyr. We're not fool enough to make her perform the ritual when she risks being kidnapped and dragged halfway across Britain."

"Sensible kids don't decide to take down the most powerful man in the country."

Harry shrugged. "Point, I suppose."

"You suppose?"

"All right. Point. But about the telepathy, which is why I came here in the first place- are you going to try it out?"

Tyr considered. "Not tonight," he decided. "They're all so excited that I couldn't get them to focus."

"You're not," Harry observed.

"I can't fight the feeling that this will all go wrong somehow. It's ironic… for years, I've been the only one holding out hope that a cure exists, that we're not cursed for the rest of eternity. Now that the cure has been found- with my help, no less- it's hard to believe. I keep thinking that any second now, the moon will come out from behind that cloud and-"

"Oh, look." There was soft laughter in Harry's voice. "The moon came out from behind that cloud."

Tyr spun. He hadn't realized it, but during his conversation with Harry, he'd turned away from the window to face the young Parselmouth. Now he turned back to look at the moon- a bright silver orb that was no longer hidden behind clouds.

His thoughts froze, as did his body. The moon, shining and white, became the entire world. It was all he could see, all he could think about. The other senses faded to insignificance.

The moon was out. The full moon was out, it was _there_, and he wasn't a wolf. He was human.

Within his mind, his wolf-self smirked. The canine equivalent of _I told you so_ floated across their bond.

"I don't believe it," he breathed. "I don't- I can't-" He shook his head, stunned. "I don't believe it."

Harry grinned at him, green eyes shining in the moonlight. "Believe it, Tyr," he laughed. "You'd better believe it."

* * *

><p>Tyr had long ago accepted that security in the CC sucked. If his people had had anywhere else to go (which they didn't, as they'd be fired from any other jobs the moment the full moon rolled around), they could have escaped simply by walking out. Still, the wizarding public was rather nervous about a colony of lycanthropes, so they insisted on employing (usually terrible) Aurors and trainees to watch over the prisoners. In reality, the Aurors weren't guards so much as supervisors who told the werewolves where to unload the latest shipment from Sweden. Still, shouldn't their security be at least marginally better on the full moon, when a group of rabid magical beasts was going berserk just half a mile from their barracks? Barracks wherein they had probably gotten roaring drunk, as most of them did every moon?<p>

Evidently no, it could not.

"Look on the bright side," advised Harry, who had taken Pollux's form. "They could have shipped you all to Azkaban. It's always better for your enemy to underprepare than for him to over-plan."

"I know that, intellectually at least," Tyr grumbled. "But this is downright insulting. They could at least _pretend _to do their jobs and-"

"Hey!" yelled a female voice. "Stay away from the werewolves!"

Pollux blinked, pulled up short, as Nymphadora Tonks stalked out of the shadows. She was the first Auror (technically an Auror-trainee, but close enough) he had seen all night.

"It's okay, Dora." Remus melted out of the shadows. A huge grin threatened to split his face. "Tyr, Pollux, this is Nymphadora Tonks, the only person in this place who bothers doing her job. Dora, these are Tyr Ulfhednar and Pollux Riddle."

"Charmed," Harry improvised, giving a sweeping bow. "Ah… what exactly are you doing here?"

Tonks sucked in a deep breath in preparation for her explanation. "Remus let slip at our last meeting that the werewolves hurt themselves when they're in their feral state, which made me realize that it would be pretty easy to make werewolves' lives a lot easier with just a couple basic spells. We can't afford Wolfsbane- at least, that's what they tell me- but what about a simple Stunner? I thought that if I Stunned the werewolves when they transformed, they wouldn't hurt each other, and I could wake them up when the moon was down." She huffed, glared at Remus. "I didn't expect them to, you know, _not transform._"

It was fairly obvious that Tyr and Pollux had interrupted the explanation. It was also quite, quite obvious to Tyr (not his almost-thirteen companion, who had very little experience with actual interpersonal relationships) that Tonks's anger was that of a woman who had just discovered that her man was keeping something from her. Despite the seriousness of their situation- any Auror, no matter how friendly, knowing that the werewolves were cured was _bad_- he had to fight to suppress his laughter.

Remus saw his alpha's amusement, of course. The younger werewolf shot him a death glare before summarizing the events which had led up to their freedom. "Last December, Pollux approached Tyr with a proposition…."

He left out some details, partly for brevity's sake and partly because they didn't know how much to trust her with. His story neglected to mention anything about Sirius's escape, Voldemort's memories, Dumbledore's interference, or ancient prophecies hidden under Hogwarts and guarded by an almost-as-ancient snake. And of course he was too intelligent to let slip that Pollux was none other than Harry, his godson.

Tonks's eyes shone. "So you really are free," she whispered. "That's- by Merlin, Remus, that's wonderful. But why haven't you told anyone?"

He met her gaze. Softly, solemnly, he asked, "What do you think will happen if Fudge learns that a group of already-feared dark creatures has become even more powerful?"

She blanched. "Oh. Good point." An awkward silence, a shuffling of feet. "I'd… better get back. They'll notice that I'm gone, soon. Well, probably. They were hitting the bottles when I left, but it's better to be safe than sorry. Night, Remus." She ducked her head, scurried off into the night.

"Night, Dora," he called after her. Then, once she had faded into the shadows, he turned to Tyr and growled, "Not one word."

"I didn't say anything," the alpha replied blandly. "Now, are the others out?"

The younger werewolf nodded. Before he could answer, though, a woman's voice called, "We're out. We were just waiting for Remus to reason with his girlfriend."

"She's _not-"_

The werewolf stepped into the light. "Who is this?" she asked curiously, gesturing at Pollux.

Tyr stepped back, letting the other werewolves- his people, now and for always- look at the young Animagus. He, too, turned his gaze to the Parselmouth, a young man with ancient wisdom, an implacable storm waiting to clear the old away.

They had discussed this moment, him and Remus and the other werewolves. Their decision had been unanimous. Not even Moony had disagreed.

"This," he said, directing his speech at her but addressing all the werewolves, "is Pollux Ophion Riddle, Moon Lord, Leader of the Hunt, who saved us all."

The other lycanthrope's breath caught. The shadows behind her shifted as their inhabitants, werewolves all, leaned in for a closer look.

Tyr Ulfhednar stood tall and proud, every inch an alpha. The scent of destiny lay heavy on the air. "This is Pollux Ophion Riddle, who brought us the Chalice of the Moon. This is Pollux Ophion Riddle, the Lightning Speaker. Pollux, this… is your army."

* * *

><p>End of book three<p>

Book 4, _Harry Potter and the Tournament of Houses,_ will be up sometime in the first half of March. It'll involve wonderful things like werewolf conspiracies against Tonks, politicking with assorted magical creatures, Mad-eye Moody (or IS he?), another period of I'm-not-talking-to-you between Harry and Mark, and of course the thing mentioned in the title. Until then, adios!

-Antares


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